


dismantle. repair.

by birdsandivory



Series: you're a red string (tied to my finger) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death, Reincarnation, Romantic Fluff, a little on the soulmate-ish side, and nearly everyone gets a mention, the burn on this is mild, there is a happy ending, this one is a rollercoaster, who has extreme wingman status
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: There’s something about loose ends that Claude just doesn’t like.He doesn’t like that his mom left him and his dad without a word of explanation years back, doesn’t like that Sylvain hangs up the phone without saying goodbye first, doesn’t even like it when Hilda starts sentences and doesn’t finish them because she expects him to know what goes in the blanks. And when he bumps into a man whose eyes make him want to use every ridiculously pretty word synonymous with the color purple, he especially doesn't like that when asked if he remembers him, the answer is no.With a face like that, Claude doesn't know how he'd forget.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Claude von Riegan, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier & Hilda Valentine Goneril
Series: you're a red string (tied to my finger) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691029
Comments: 44
Kudos: 165





	dismantle. repair.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orgiastique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orgiastique/gifts).



> i just have a lot of feelings for claurenz and wanted to write something romantic ;___; please enjoy all of the side character mentions and parts, it's very important to me to have cute friendships littering this fic!!! it was a lot of fun writing in claude's point of view and sprinkling in all of the golden deer crew (plus sylvain, who needs an honorary place in the gd friend group, he's a perfect addition), along with everyone else! enjoy this emotional rollercoaster of a love letter!
> 
> p.s. shout-out to all my fellow pocs: KHALID!
> 
> big thanks to [maki](https://twitter.com/orgiastique) for all of her help and her support and even beta-reading her own commission. i'm sorry i'm trash. this one is for you. you're the best! ;;;;;; <3
> 
> "Hands, like secrets, are the hardest thing to keep from you." —Dismantle. Repair., Anberlin

*******

_“I want to know,” that satiny voice reads across from Claude, violet strands spilling over sharp shoulders as it speaks each and every handwritten word. They waterfall, cascade—whatever poetic thing he can possibly wax, they do. And when the tips of gloved fingers push a stray lock back behind an ear, lashes flitting to catch his attention, Claude knows those simple words written on yellowing journal pages hold meaning._

_“You want to know~?” He teases when the silence drags for too long._

_“What storm festers in the cavity of your chest...” It comes as a whisper, and Claude can feel the shivers that pretty lilt sends through his limbs, blood rushing and pulse quickening: “...when you see me.”_

* * *

Claude wakes up like clockwork thirty minutes before class. 

His heart is beating in his ears and he feels like he has a headache, but he chalks it up to not getting enough sleep the night before—or the night before that. But that’s his problem and it doesn’t stop him from doing what he has to, so he brushes the kink in his neck off as one of the ‘little things.’ 

Everything between brushing his teeth and prerequisite eight a.m. science rushes by like a dream, but he knows he’s far past dreams and well into reality when his phone starts sending him group chat notifications. No subconscious fantasy of his would include Sylvain spamming him with winky faces, that’s for sure. 

No, like all Claude’s dreams, they remain tucked into his bed. In fact, that’s where last night’s is right now—though, he doesn’t remember a thing about it. 

Must’ve been good. 

Claude takes one long look around his apartment before he grabs his keys and locks his cardboard door. It isn’t a pre-furnished dorm, but it is all his own—a ten minute walk from campus, secluded, and simple without all the fuss. 

And all the rules, of course. 

Just like he likes it.

But traffic is heavy today and the sidewalks are crowded, so he arrives to class a solid ten minutes after he’s supposed to be there, sneaking (or trying to) into the chair next to Dimitri, whose ridiculously heavy backpack saves his seat.

“You’re a real friend, Dima,” Claude says with a grin that Dimitri returns tenfold.

“And you’re lucky Professor Hanneman forgot to lock the door.”

Class goes by like that, and the twenty minutes that follow are spent regurgitating any information Dimitri wasn’t able to get down on paper out loud so that he can. It’s a routine they fell into quickly after their first class together; Professor Hanneman doesn’t slow down for anyone and Claude’s got a knack for remembering information without much effort.

And when they’re done, he heads straight for the campus cafe.

Claude spots Hilda before he even gets close to stepping inside the double doors, her long, pink hair fanning out across her shoulders, bangs curled with the humidity. She’s sitting at a table by the courtyard fountain, heel of her hand shoved into her cheek, red lips pouting. It’s not like her to choose fresh air over A/C, so Claude arrives to the conclusion that there must not be enough seats inside for them; a rare occurrence, but not one he minds.

He _likes_ it outside.

With a satisfied sigh, he sits down across from her as she starts fumbling through her purse, closing his eyes and stretching out under the warm rays.

“Ah, a gentle breeze, fresh air—the _sun~_ ” Claude teases, opening just one eye for a glimpse of her reaction. Hilda snaps her head up immediately at the intrusion, face scrunching. 

“Claude! Where were you this morning?” She demands, pulling out a tube of hand lotion and a pack of facial wipes. “You were supposed to slide me Casagranda’s lecture notes before class!”

“Sorry, sorry. I was late waking up,” he apologizes, dropping his arms and the act. It _had_ been his job to bring the notes with him and hand them over, that much he feels bad about. “Did you survive?” 

“Barely. You still have them, right?” Claude nods, pulling off his book bag and laying a stack of crinkled papers on the table, which Hilda quickly snatches up, thumbing through every page with a pleased hum. “Better late than never, I guess.” 

“Hey, be grateful I wrote them down for you in the first place.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you, Claude~”

“Look who decided to roll outta bed this morning.” A hand smacks Claude on the shoulder and Sylvain drops into the seat on his right, permanent grin on his face. “Thought I’d be on the prowl all by my lonesome.” 

“Like I’d ever let you embarrass yourself without me,” Claude reminds him. 

“Do you ever think about anything else, Sylvain?” Hilda twists her face at his wagging brows with a girlish ‘ugh’, and Claude holds back a rude comment when she hits Sylvain’s stomach hard enough to make him fold. “There are more important matters to talk about—like how you _promised_ to help me move out of my dorm this weekend.”

Sylvain rubs at his gut, bottom lip jutting forward. 

“Of course I’ll help you, even though you’re just plain mean,” he says mirthfully, leaning into her personal space with his practiced smolder. “Any of your cute friends coming?”

“Just big, strong, _manly_ Raphael,” Hilda responds, voice honey-sweet. “Is _he_ your type?”

“Hey, you’d be surprised the kind of range my type has.”

“Careful, Hilda,” Claude warns. “He might steal all your boy-toys away.”

She scoffs, holding back a simper. “As if.”

“ _‘What’s that Raphael?’_ ” He says into his fist, pinky and thumb sticking out as he shoves his pretend cell phone into his ear, his other covering his gasping lips. “ _‘You’re into redheads now?’”_

 _"‘Whoever is going to help me with these heavy boxes?’”_ Sylvain chimes in with an overdone sigh.

They laugh at Hilda’s pinched face, high-fiving as she stabs a fork into her salad. 

“You guys are lucky a girl like me is even willing to talk to you,” she huffs. “I could be sharing hair care tips with Ferdinand over a latte right now.”

Claude shakes his head at the dramatics, sharing an amused look with Sylvain. “You know we’re just—”

There’s a flash in his peripherals that catches his attention and, for a split second, he’s stunned silent.

His heart beats fast all of a sudden, and he whips his head in the direction of the courtyard fountain, hoping for a glimpse of whatever it was he saw. Swearing he knew it in that instant—that glint—that flicker of _something_ eludes him now; it’s a familiar image he can’t remember the details of, but it was there all the same. 

In such a vibrant shade of violet.

Claude’s heart doesn’t stop its hard beat and he barely has time to think about the possibilities or the fact that a barely-there recollection of a dream is at the forefront of his mind—he doesn’t even have the time to ask himself why he would even use the word _violet._

Because a shrill voice talks into his ear.

“Earth to Claude~!” Hilda waves her hand in front of his face as she calls in a sing-song voice, and he flinches away from the bright pink acrylic nails blocking his view of the fountain. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Huh? Oh—you bet, Hildy!” Claude reaches up to swat her hand away, earning him a loud, unladylike raspberry as he stares ahead at the empty fountain. Whatever he saw before isn’t there anymore and a disquieted sigh falls from his lips. “You bet.”

*******

Magic has never been his forte, but Claude isn’t one to say ‘no’ to his professor.

Life hasn’t quite been the same since Byleth arrived at Garreg Mach. She’s grown on him as a person, entranced him in her mystery, and has helped him overcome the inner stalemate he didn’t know was holding him back. And it isn’t just him; Byleth has touched everyone in some way, and though he doesn’t think much of the Goddess, he gladly covets any boon he can. 

Claude’s never had a rock before and he feels more grounded than ever. 

He doesn’t have to work hard for her—talent, skill, those things come naturally to him—but he’ll do what he can to set an example, if just until it’s time for him to put his own plans into motion. 

For now, he pays attention, as though whatever meager spell learned will give him the means to save the world. 

A flicker of movement alerts him, and Claude looks over to the desk adjacent to his to see Lorenz staring intensely his way. He returns that gaze with an amused gleam in his eyes, lips curled into a smirk, not relenting until Lorenz turns away, raising his hand to answer one of the professor’s questions. Claude finds it funny, how eagerly Lorenz tries to impress Byleth with his knowledge all the while still finding time to scrutinize him. 

Something shiny and new has arrived, and yet, some things never change. 

Claude has to admire the guy’s loyalty to his father’s work, however, and finds his persistence a worthy challenge.

It’s just a shame that Lorenz seems to hate him so much.

“Professor, I think it best if we learn by doing,” Lysithea says from beside him, and Claude tears his eyes away from the back of Lorenz’s head to watch for Byleth’s reaction. “I’d much prefer to hone my skills with hands-on experience, rather than attempting it based on theory.”

No one objects; Lysithea is rarely ever wrong and nearly all of them opt for training over study.

And just like that, Claude finds himself facing Lorenz again, only this time at the training grounds. Byleth has them paired off: one student adept in magic and the other who bears little to no skill—while the rest await their turn, observing, hoping to learn something from the battle before. Claude admires that their professor sees the benefits of faith and reason, and though he never has himself, he wishes he knew enough to at least land a hit that Lorenz actually has to _move away from_ in order to dodge. 

He’s certainly not doing Claude any favors.

“Lacking distance, I see,” Lorenz snuffs out the embers of the last missed attack with his boot before casting a Fire spell so uniquely his own—its dark flame raging blue, and Claude almost snorts at the exuberance of it. “Your precision is horrific.”

Claude leaps out of the way, casting his own spell; it lands far from its target.

“Never used magic once in my life—only ever needed proficiency with a bow and arrow.”

“A weapon is only good for as long as it keeps.”

“It doesn’t take me long to win a battle.”

“And yet, you cannot hit me!” Lorenz’s next blast knocks him square, effectively tipping him off balance as he stumbles back to dodge the indigo flare by a hair's breadth. Claude is nothing if not a quick thinker, however, and he rolls onto his feet, pulling an arrow from its quiver. He doesn’t bother reaching for his bow, focusing his energy on the bolt before releasing it like a flying dagger.

It plants itself at Lorenz’s feet, a Silence spell wrapping around him like a vice, the arrow a perfect conduit. Thin hands grasp at a pale throat, at angry red marks like ribbons wound tight—strangling, constricting.

Claude wins.

And it didn’t take him long at all.

There are murmurs amongst the rest of their class, Leonie talking animatedly with Ignatz, extending her hands as if she were holding her bow. Lysithea cuts in and she and Leonie strike up some sort of argument, Ignatz actively trying to calm them down. Claude watches on, amused, lips tugging upward as he meets Marianne’s shy smile and Raphael thrusting a thumbs up his way. 

Giving them both a two-fingered salute, Claude jogs away from the center of the training grounds, pulling his arrow from the soft flooring and looking up at Lorenz cheekily. Byleth had released the Silence immediately after the battle was over, so he merely stands, rubbing his bruised neck defeatedly. 

“Not bad, right?”

Claude stares at him expectantly and receives a glare in return.

“You are good, I admit,” Lorenz clears his throat—an attempt to disguise the hoarseness in his voice. “But the rival of the good is the best, Claude. I would be wary of my skills if I were you.”

“Wary I am and that, my friend, is why I win,” Claude retorts, spinning the arrow around his thumb.

Lorenz doesn’t seem impressed by his antics, shifting his weight and posing pompously before him. “Save your confidence for the battlefield, lest you need protecting.”

Claude finds himself tickled by the whole show of it, but he doesn’t take the bait. They fought enough for today; a break from tongue-lashing won’t kill the guy. 

“Hey, the way I see it—you protect me and I’ll protect you.”

Violet eyes widen and Claude almost smiles at the victory; but then, Lorenz laughs—something incredulous and distrustful that sinks into his skin.

“From friends to enemies beneath the Horsebow sky,” he says softly at first, poetically. “Their promises made and died”—and then, bitterly—“upon a golden throne of _lies._ ”

*******

His ceiling has a stain on it, Claude thinks to himself.

Somehow, tracing back its origins seems easier than figuring out why he’s in such a state of confusion. Every few moments he blinks, and in that split second, he sees sharp features and slitted eyes. A smirking mouth that taunts and insults him. Pale hands casting, glowing behind a veil of black magic. 

When he opens them again, all Claude sees is that stain. 

It’s the second day in a row he’s been having dreams, he notes. Not that he doesn’t have them every once in a while, he’s been subjected to a common nightmare here and there, maybe a too real broken-record memory of when he was a kid. And he brushed the one off from the day before as something that was too good to remember. 

But this one was different. 

It was a culmination of flashing imagery and words he can’t make sense of, but in the wake of it all, it left a burning beneath his skin—an unmistakable gnawing in his core that he only gets when something’s coming. In a way, it’s almost like a call to adventure, spurring him in some new direction a split decision can set him on the path to. 

Claude just isn’t sure what that path is. 

And he doesn’t like to be unsure of anything. 

The thought haunts him late into the morning, long after he’s awakened, long after he’s gotten dressed. And when he’s too distracted to watch t.v., he lies back down, stares at the stain on his ceiling for hours until he hears a series of knocks at his door. 

“Claude!” Hilda’s shrill voice rings out, fist tapping (read: punching) in tandem with her steady, off-key chant of his name. “I know you don’t have class anytime soon, but I _do_ and I need that textbook for von Hrym’s.”

Claude stretches in place, turning his head and staring at the digital clock across the room. He’s almost thankful for the interruption because, despite not having class just yet, he was definitely on the verge of forgetting to go attend it entirely. 

All because of some dream and a stain he decides is shaped like a cat. 

Rolling out of bed, he heads for his desk, grabbing the textbook in question. Claude jogs into his living room and opens the front door, offering her the book before she can even complain about how long he took. “You know, I don’t know why you always have to borrow it. You don’t even do the readings.”

“Because!” She huffs as if explaining herself is a chore, and Claude has to wonder how such a powerful voice lives in that tiny five-oh body that he nudges out of the way so he can lock up his apartment. “Professor von Hrym is scary when you’re not prepared; it’s like he becomes _Death himself._ ”

Claude gives her a disbelieving look, letting her lead them both out of the complex. “You’d be prepared if you didn’t spend the money you were supposed to buy your books with on a bunch of _hair perfume._ ”

“It’s _dry shampoo,_ Claude. Besides, your... unique class schedule just so happens to overlap with mine perfectly. I thought ahead!” She says as though she should be complimented for her lack of effort. Still, Claude can’t help but smile fondly. He shakes his head at her as she walks on prettily like she does, arms swaying back and forth.

“You’re just lucky.”

“Lucky you’re gonna be a... “ Hilda looks perplexed. “A physicist? An architect...? An _artist?_ ”

“My future occupation doesn’t have a name yet, but it will be awesome.” Claude nods, clasping his hands back behind his head as they pass by Cafe Enbarr, suddenly all too aware that they’re missing a part of their set. “Hey, where’s Sylvain, by the way?”

“Ugh, he’s carpooling with Felix today and you _know_ that means Dimitri and Ingrid will be taking up the back seat.”

“With Felix?” He gasps. “Instead of _me?_ ” Claude does his best to sound offended, as if Sylvain isn’t attached to their hips seventy-five percent of the week. “What does _Felix_ have that I don’t?”

“Uhm, the first twelve years of Sylvain’s life and a _car?_ ” 

Claude clutches his chest dramatically, hissing as though her words hurt. As they reach campus, he jogs forward to open the door of the first building he comes across (named after some Hevring dude) for Hilda, fixing her with a kicked puppy dog stare in the hope that she might feel some semblance of guilt within her heart. 

She turns her nose up at him as she steps inside, looking pleased with his misery. 

The hallway around them is packed, but students are slowly filing into classrooms. He catches sight of Hanneman holding his door open, intently staring at his watch like he’s just _dying_ to close and lock it on someone running late all the while under the guise of perfect gentlemanly politeness—the old geezer. 

Claude people-watches by Hilda’s side in comfortable silence, or well, _he’s_ silent. Hilda’s humming a strangely familiar tune, something soft and rippling like waves on the surface of a glassy pond, meandering between long stretches of staring ahead and closing her eyes because she’s close enough to Claude to feel when she might be straying from his side. 

Her melody, though slightly off-pitch at times and lacking rhythm, feels like some sort of weird stress reliever. Though, he’s not really sure why he should feel stressed at all. 

Waves of long, silver hair remind him. 

A petite girl, somehow even shorter than Hilda, sweeps past them in a flurry—three or four textbooks pulled to her chest, her face pinched in determination. Claude doesn’t get the best look at her, but that shockingly bright hair—white, not silver, now that he thinks about it—brings him back to that dream he had. Of folded hands and an eagerness to learn. Of pale hair and rosy eyes. Of arrows and blasts and—

Something else.

Claude nudges Hilda.

“You ever... think about what dreams might mean?” 

“Dreams?” Hilda hums thoughtfully, shrugging after a moment. “I dunno. But they say if you’re naked in public in your dreams, it’s a sign of insecurity,” she points out matter-of-factly. “Something like that?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Claude waves his hand dismissively before cupping his chin as if wearing a contemplative look will get him any closer to the right words. It doesn’t and he goes back to hand waving. “ _Agh_ —I’m not sure how to explain them. They don’t make any sense to me.”

“It could be nothing at all, you know?” Hilda makes a sharp turn for the nearest door, reaching out to grab the knob and give Claude an apologetic look for cutting their conversation short. “Well, this is my stop, so I gotta go. But try not to let it bother you so much. Sometimes dreams are just dreams.”

“Unless they’re wet dreams—then they’re your deepest fantasies.” Sylvain’s voice is loud in his ear and Claude smushes a hand to his cheek, pushing him right out of the personal bubble he decided to appear in. 

“Shut up, dude,” Claude says half-heartedly, laughter in his voice. “Maybe you’re right, though,” he grins, emphasizing: “ _Hilda._ ”

Hilda smiles cheekily and waves goodbye, disappearing into her classroom. 

Smile wearing to a simper, Claude starts down the hall with a pep in his step, Sylvain sighing extraordinarily as he falls in line beside him, whining. “I’m hurt, you know—that was my honest opinion!”

“Like you have a heart to hurt,” Claude retorts with a playful shove. 

“My soul hurts!” Sylvain shoves him back, to which Claude returns the favor, and then that favor is returned thus with another shove. And then Claude shoves him and he shoves Claude—and they’re laughing and shoving their way out the door and toward the courtyard fountain like a couple of lunatics that don’t have class for at least another hour; it’s all fun and games.

Until Sylvain shoves him a little too hard and he barrels into the chest of another student.

Claude reels back, swearing he’s just inhaled so much perfume that he’ll be tasting it on his tongue for days.

“Excuse _you—_ ” 

That knife-sharp voice cuts off and he looks up into a wide-eyed stare, dangerously violet and framed by wildly vivid strands close in color. He’s bumped himself into a long, lean specimen—all frills and high-dollar price tags—and just when Claude thinks he’s about to get scolded, said specimen gives him a curious look.

“Sorry about that. I wasn’t watching where I was being _shoved._ ” Claude pointedly glares at Sylvain before looking back at his apparent victim. “Really, I’m—”

“Do you... remember me?” Tall, Purple, and Handsome interrupts, and Claude’s mouth gums shut as the feeling that he’s just missed something important fogs his mind. 

“Remember you?” He echoes dumbly instead. 

A long silence follows and Claude watches sharp, elegant features melt into a look of disappointment.

“I see.” Thin fingers fiddle along the worn cover of a book, and his gaze lingers too long on white teeth pulling at a pink bottom lip. “Never mind,” the specimen says bitingly, face twisting after a moment. “Forget about it.”

Claude watches him walk away with a bewildered look on his face, brows furrowed and lips parted like he has anything to say. There’s a digging feeling in his gut that he doesn’t particularly like because, unexpectedly, something about the color violet seems strikingly familiar. 

He shrugs it off almost immediately. 

It’s probably just his imagination. 

“Dude,” Sylvain’s arm drops around Claude’s shoulders, and he grins wolfishly, eyes conspicuously following flowing purple hair as he hums. “I didn’t know you were into those thespian types.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Claude retorts, though he can’t look away from a retreating back in a suede coat.

“Yeah, not with that pickup line— _‘do you remember me?’_ ” Sylvain bats his eyes for effect. “But, he’s not bad looking,” he adds, and Claude silently agrees as he’s nudged with an elbow. “Seriously, though, you gonna hit that? ‘Cause I thought I might say hello.”

Claude’s nostrils flare. 

“ _No._ ” It comes out of his mouth before he knows if he means for it to, and the quickness of his protest catches him off guard. The raised eyebrow Sylvain is giving him doesn’t help his case, either, and he pushes him off his shoulder with a suck of his teeth. “I mean—whatever man, I don’t care.”

“Oh,” Sylvain laughs out loud, “you are _so_ into thespian types.”

*******

“I don’t remember inviting you.” 

Claude can’t help the twitch of his lips when Lorenz pauses, a perfectly timed brew over-steeped a few short seconds as he steps beneath the pavilion. He has the table set to an aesthetic eye, textures and designs probably complementing the color and aroma of the tea itself. 

The setup is all so completely _Lorenz,_ down to the arrangement of the plates and the shape of the sweets. 

“ _Claude._ ”

“Ignatz said he couldn’t make it, but didn’t have the time to tell you himself,” he shrugs, pulling out the chair opposite his host and unceremoniously dropping himself into it. “I humbly offered to do him a favor.”

“By taking his place,” Lorenz hums dispassionately, grabbing for the saucers and plates on the table as though he’s intent on putting everything away instead of going through with his plans.

“Well, he just asked me to cancel, but I saw you set up already and didn’t want to have all your hard work go to waste,” Claude says with underlying suggestion. He’s not really one to sit down and play nice like every other noble in the monastery, but he does have an interest in Lorenz, aside from what he already knows.

He’s a coalescence of complicated layers, muted beneath the heavy hand of a disloyal Gloucester noble, that Claude wants to pick apart.

Lorenz seems to consider his words, looking between the stacked porcelain to the wisps of smoke that expel from the flute of his floral teapot. He unstacks the saucers one by one again, placing an empty cup in front of Claude slowly, sniffing softly. 

It feels like a truce, closing whatever distance Lorenz likes to keep between them both. 

“I... do suppose it would be a shame if it did.”

“I’m not a bad guest, promise.”

“Yes, you know when to use your manners as needed,” Lorenz agrees, looking contemplatively at the teapot. “The tea is already finished brewing, so I cannot exactly ask which you favor.”

Claude shrugs without complaint, watching as Lorenz goes to the trouble of pouring with a finesse ‘befitting of his noble station,’ the unmistakable aroma wafting from his cup pleasant. 

“I think I like bergamot just fine.” He doesn’t reach for his cup until Lorenz pours his own and takes his seat, wanting the full satisfaction of getting to see a look of surprise on that self-important noble face.

“You know your tastes,” Lorenz commends. “I would not have guessed.”

“I know a lot of things.”

His host says nothing to that. Instead, Lorenz takes his cup delicately in his hands, allowing it to float between his fingers. Long lashes flutter as his eyes close, and he stops regarding Claude altogether, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he’s still breathing. Claude can’t help but stare curiously; he wonders if this atmosphere, the coolness of the night, and the smell of his favorite tea warms Lorenz the way a meal flavored with spices from home warms him. 

It’s only this thought that allows him to understand the tranquility of the moment.

Claude pinches a cube of sugar into his tea.

“So, what is it you’re after?” 

Lorenz’s eyes are on him again, furtive and calculating; it makes Claude’s lips curl. “After?”

“You cannot possibly have me believe that you, out of good faith and will, decided to have tea with me in the stead of Ignatz.” Carefully, the porcelain cup in Lorenz’s hands is set back on its saucer, his fingers lacing themselves together and resting upon his knee—one leg neatly crossed over the other. Claude thinks he looks awfully sophisticated for someone who doesn’t bother to eclipse the fact that they’re interrogating a guest. “As always, you are far too suspicious for your own good. Is it because I’ve caught onto you?”

“Hey, hey. Calm down, will you?” Claude lets his smile fall and he sighs; entertaining or not, he didn’t actually come to fight. “I’m not always in the mood for a battle of wits, you know. Maybe I did just wanna have tea.”

“There is something about that I refuse to think true.” 

“Think what you want,” he shrugs, lifting his own cup and sampling his brew. “This is superb.”

Lorenz looks unimpressed.

“Very well, I will play your game, if just to catch you slip up.” He says it with determination, but Claude sees that he pays little attention to anything where a tea party is involved, sees the way he basks in the extravagance of something that should be so simple. Lorenz’s biting tone is no more when he says, “this one is my favorite.”

“Huh.” Claude’s brows rise in mild surprise. “Thought it would be a blend of roses.”

“I do enjoy a good floral brew,” Lorenz corrects, looking down at the coppery liquid with a fondness Claude’s only seen him show for pretty blooms or a woman’s delicate hands. “But the earthiness of bergamot, the light citrus flavor—it is quite calming.”

They go through motions Claude’s endured hundreds of times with petty nobles and house lords—talking about the weather, past politics no one can seem to get over, and even the importance of choosing the right horse.

Claude thinks it feels all too rehearsed.

Until it isn’t. 

Lorenz’s colors reveal themselves in undertones, unfurling like a late bloom or painting the sky in the slow ease of a sunset. It takes work on Claude’s part to build a wall around them that allows those stiff shoulders to relax, for that unguarded, ostentatious personality to shine through without abandon. 

When Lorenz scoffs, eyes bugging in a way that nearly makes Claude choke with laughter, he knows he’s done it.

“Ferdinand and _Edelgard_?” Lorenz shakes his head, setting down his cup. Claude can feel a shaking foot rustling at the loose folds of his trousers beneath the table, amused at how stir-crazy a bit of false gossip can ruffle Lorenz’s perfectly preened feathers. “Preposterous—I would sooner see him with _Hubert von Vestra._ He despises her.”

“Come on, as much as he vies for her attention, there’s _got_ to be something there.”

“I doubt either of them would agree with you,” he huffs, bringing a neatly folded kerchief to his lips—dabbing at absolutely nothing, though Claude doesn’t dwell on that. “The day those two get married is the day Hilda decides to do her own chores.”

Claude erupts into a roar of hysterics, Lorenz’s more modest laughter mingling with his own for longer than he expects until it stops all together. And it’s not until he reins in his chortles that he notices that Lorenz looks startled, staring at him in utter silence, as though he can’t believe it was possible for them to laugh together. 

He’s surprised himself, but perhaps for different reasons—none of them involving houses or nobility or governing rank. He’s almost sure Lorenz is internally berating himself for even fraternizing with Claude, telling himself that he’s far too good to be having tea with House Riegan. 

Ridiculous.

But that overdone narcissism, Claude hates to admit, is something he actually likes about Lorenz. Likes it so much that when he brings his cup to his lips, he realizes that he hadn’t noticed it was empty, and puts it down with a clink.

“Please,” Lorenz rises from his seat suddenly, all nervousness and shaking hands as he attends to being the perfect host, reaching for the teapot, “allow me—”

His trembling fingers end up knocking over the cup before he can properly pour, and Claude lunges forward to catch it before it shatters on the ground. He places the cup back on the saucer, no harm done, and takes the pot from Lorenz to pour the tea himself. 

“Saved it.” Claude winks, enjoying the light dusting of pink on Lorenz’s cheeks as he sits back down, slightly embarrassed. “I’ve got killer reflexes.”

“It is expected,” comes the clipped response; he’s still unsettled by his own behavior, though he says with a smile, “you are a skilled fighter, after all.”

“Are you _complimenting_ me?”

“Maybe I am,” he says cheekily, and Claude finds the way Lorenz laughs behind his curled fingers charming. 

“I thought I had a reputation for changing like the tides, but...” Claude shifts in his seat, bracing a hand against one of his thighs as he wraps the other around the bow of his cup in what Lorenz would call an ‘undignified manner.’ He takes a sip, smiling. “You really are unpredictable.”

“Am I?” Again with the cheek.

“Mysterious as the moon sometimes,” he says light-heartedly—playfully poetic despite actually meaning it. “When you’re being yourself, that is.”

Lorenz’s fingers are uneasy around his cup, pressing and pulling along the porcelain as he stares into his soft red brew, bringing the cup to his lips after a moment and taking a demure sip. He looks at odds with himself, and true to his word, Claude doesn’t know what to expect. 

“And when I am not being myself?” He asks, and that perfectly transparent role he plays unravels into a puzzling game of emotional trivia, expression giving nothing away. As though he wants to make sure Claude tells the truth instead of just what he wants to hear. 

“I can see right through you,” Claude smiles, propping an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, and he wonders if he’s being _too_ truthful. “Isn’t there a poem about puppets on strings?”

“There are many,” Lorenz says without a hitch. “But I do not feel in the mood for poetry today.” 

“I’m surprised.”

Rosy lips curl upward, Lorenz looking awfully pleased with himself; Claude can’t help but be pleased that he’s pleased.

They both reach for the teapot then, but Claude’s hands are swept away, graceful ones wrapping around carved porcelain instead.

“Shall I pour you another cup, von Riegan?”

*******

There’s something about loose ends that Claude just doesn’t like. 

He doesn’t like that his mom left him and his dad without a word of explanation years back, doesn’t like that Sylvain hangs up the phone without saying goodbye first, doesn’t like it when Hilda starts sentences and doesn’t finish them because she expects him to know what goes in the blanks. 

And for whatever it’s worth to that guy from yesterday, the image of that pretty, angular face never having left his mind, Claude doesn’t like that he doesn’t _remember._

It’s why he’s been sitting by the fountain in between classes, hoping that at least one of those four things will start to make sense.

_“Do you... remember me?”_

Claude doesn’t know how he could forget.

A guy like that isn’t exactly common. He’s never seen such pale skin, like perfect porcelain, or eyes that make him want to use every ridiculously pretty word synonymous with the color purple. He’s never seen hair that falls so perfectly straight, that shines like faceted amethyst, yet lies like silk. All in one single conversation, he saw a beauty beyond comparison; if he’s really forgotten someone like that, he’s a fool. 

But Claude’s no fool.

So this must be something else. 

For it to bother him for the past two weeks, it must be.

“Claude?” 

Tearing his eyes away from the fountain, Claude’s gaze falls to Dimitri standing tall above him, charming smile on his charming face.

“Oh, hey, Dima,” he grins, leaning back against his empty table.

“I never see you out here,” Dimitri points out—' _especially alone’—_ he doesn’t say, though it’s written all over his face that he’s wondering just where Sylvain and Hilda are. Claude doesn’t exactly know either; this isn’t really anywhere close to the time he arrives for class this late in the week.

“Just needed a change of pace.”

Dimitri chuckles. “That was your excuse for growing out a full beard last fall and we were all very concerned.” 

“Does everyone have to remind me of that?” Claude reaches up, scratches at his scruff. “I cleaned it up, didn’t I?”

“I’m just saying.” Dimitri raises his hands in defense. “Anyway, I saw you sitting here and wanted to see if you would join us. We’re studying for Hanneman’s next quiz.” He points to a table across the patio where Ingrid, Felix, Ashe, and that new transfer student that showed up last month are sitting, nose shoved into their textbooks. “I can introduce you to Dedue!”

“Oh, I—” It doesn’t seem like a bad idea and despite Claude having half a mind to accept, the sight of a flowy, cream blouse and rose gold sunglasses makes him change his mind. He shoots up from his seat, startling Dimitri. “Actually, I gotta go, Dima.”

Dimitri frowns. “But you haven’t met Dedue...”

“Sorry, man,” Claude apologizes, tipping his chin up to get a look past broad shoulders. When he spots long flowing hair heading in the direction of the library, he gives Dimitri a friendly pat on the chest. “Next time, promise!”

Claude rushes off before he’s defeated by puppy dog eyes—ones that are better than his own and that he knows aren’t _actually_ intended for evil; in fact, he’s sure Dimitri doesn’t even know the effect he has on every single one of his friends (minus Ingrid). They’re dangerous nonetheless. Besides, Claude has every intention of ‘meeting Dedue,’ just not today, not right now.

Dimitri will understand.

The second Claude steps into the library, he slows to a casual walk, conspicuously inconspicuous in his search for hair the color of orchids—and _man,_ he really has to start checking himself. 

Hair the color of _orchids?_

Jeez.

Claude does spot strands of such a color, however, pin-straight and perfectly in place, even as thin fingers run through them. He stares for a moment longer than necessary, evaluating his plan of action, analyzing the best front to approach from—deciding what words he should say. 

He walks between two packed rows of books, out of sight and at a distance until he’s behind a shelf some feet away from the cause of his emotional discomfort. It’s crammed enough to keep him hidden and there aren’t any students around to blow his cover until he’s ready to blow it himself; it’ll work for now. 

After all, he needs to assess the situation.

Splitting two books apart with his fingers, Claude watches him through the gap. 

Sunglasses (though, since they’re no longer on his face, maybe Claude should think of something else) is sitting at a table by himself, writing with a slow, contemplative hand—as though his thoughts are strolling at a leisurely pace. Every emotion that dances across that face doesn’t last more than a moment, changing without warning and so quickly that Claude has to wonder if there was longing in his eyes before there was fire. Claude stares calculatingly at him, crunching the proverbial numbers as he seeks out every possibility for conversation and their consequences. 

With this one, Claude feels like he can’t just throw caution to the wind—the outcome is too unpredictable.

But he wants to talk; he has good reason to.

The nagging in his chest tells him so.

“Ah, excuse me.”

Claude steps out of the way for a second with a sheepish smile as one of the guys from his art class—Ignatz, he thinks—grabs for a book while profusely apologizing. And it’s only after a good thirty seconds of reassuring him that yes, _‘it’s totally fine if you want to browse,’_ before returning to spying from between the gap not a moment after Ignatz decides that it’s _definitely not_ _fine_ and power walks away from him. 

When Claude looks over at the table again, it’s covered in pens and paper, but that man—who wears his lip when he’s thinking—is nowhere to be seen. Searching green eyes cut for the shelves, but Claude doesn’t catch sight of him; he’s left his things, though, so he’s sure to be back. And by then, maybe, Claude will have chosen the best way to approach him. 

“Why are you following me?”

Claude whips his head around, the missing man in question—the specimen, totally gorgeous—giving him a once-over. Grabbing the nearest book off of one of the shelves nonchalantly, Claude opens it up to a random page, finger poised over the second paragraph. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, brushing off the question, but the book is taken from his hands—scrutinized under an intense stare.

“‘The History of Nude Modeling,’” Gorgeous reads aloud and Claude can almost hear the Sylvain in his head making an unsavory comment. “Stimulating.” 

Claude doesn’t budge, tilting his head to the side and flashing a half-cocked smile. He earns himself a sniff in return, a gesture that almost breaches the realm of being pompous, and the book is thrust back into his hands unexpectedly. Good reflexes are the only thing that saves it from falling to the ground. 

“Hey, now, this is delicate material.”

“You don’t have to try and fool me with little white lies—I can tell when I’m being followed.” The sharpness of his voice stuns Claude, chases away his silly smile and his ice-breaker wink before he can even put them to good use. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you in the courtyard?”

“So I wasn’t being subtle,” he admits, spreading his arms in surrender; though, his smile borders on mischievous.

“ _And?_ ”

Claude weighs the book in his hands, lets it fall from one to the other before he slides it back in place on the shelf, being mindful of the order.

“About what happened the other day,” he says slowly, as if just mentioning that moment will make everything disappear. “You asked me if I remember you.”

Gorgeous perks up suddenly, expression hopeful as he leans forward. “Yes?” 

“And I don’t,” Claude sighs, watching that hope vanish before his eyes, “but you clearly remember me. Help a guy out.”

“I never thought—” come the rushed words. “You never forget _anything._ ” Every pause is followed by pursed lips that open to speak and then close tightly again. And Claude notices that his eyes are frantically searching, but not once do they look at _him._ “Between the two of us, I thought you’d surely—”

“Woah, woah, slow down.” Claude’s hands emphasize his words, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, brows frowning, voice insincerely mirthful. “Spell it out for me, would you?”

“It’s nothing,” Gorgeous says after a long pause. “Just forget about me.”

Claude doesn’t say a word as he walks away—didn’t say anything the first time either, but this feels different, and he hates it almost as much as any missed opportunity. 

Maybe more. 

“Jeez, you are just having the worst luck with pretty boy, aren’t you?” Claude jumps when an elbow rests on his shoulder, and he curses the fact that Sylvain has a wild habit of appearing out of nowhere at any given time. “I could go over there and talk to him for you? Of course, if he falls for me, there’s nothing I can do about that.” 

Claude looks up and sees nothing but a smug smile and eyes staring intensely at _his_ pretty boy—specimen...— _thespian?_ All he can do is just the same, only Claude’s sure Sylvain doesn’t feel the sinking in his gut that he does at the sight of him packing up all of his things and leaving.

Or the tightness in his chest knowing that he’s only ever going to be acquainted with the guy’s back.

“I don’t even know his name,” he mutters.

“You don’t?” Sylvain turns to him, surprised. “You haven’t asked yet?” 

“He keeps avoiding me.” He gestures obviously to the once occupied table perfectly in their view. “Or, you know, telling me to back off.”

“Huh.” Sylvain is quiet for a moment, expression suddenly serious, but it’s there and gone before Claude knows it. “Maybe you guys _have_ met before and you just don’t remember,” he shrugs. “Kinda cold of you, dude.”

Claude’s head falls back and he hisses through his teeth, huffing in frustration as he looks up to see Sylvain smiling at him sympathetically. “Hey, you know I was just joking, right?”

He does, and yet, he can’t seem to feel anything but angry. 

Mostly at himself, though.

Reaching up, he drags his hand over his mouth, staring back at the empty table as though Pretty Boy Specimen is going to magically be there again. He isn’t, of course, and it rubs Claude the wrong way. 

Something else is, though. 

He steps up to the table and grabs for the book that’s left behind. It’s worn, a little bent at the corners, and when he opens it, he sees nothing but pages and pages of handwritten poems. It looks like a diary. Claude searches the outside of the book and a few random pages, trying to find a name. 

The closest he gets to one is on the inside cover, in neat, beautifully printed letters:

L.H.G.

“Initials, no name,” he sighs, turning the journal in his hands. “Not my lucky day.”

“Look on the bright side,” Sylvain amends. “Now you have a reason to talk to him again.”

Claude takes Sylvain’s words to heart.

He returns home late in the evening, showers away the smell of earthy clays and metal from class, and eats whatever pre-packaged snack he can find in his pantry. He almost wishes he had a party to go to—they always have way better food to pick at. But no news of one has reached him in weeks, so he takes what he can get, throwing himself onto his old couch with journal in hand.

_L.H.G._

He opens it to the first page without any regard for privacy. 

If he’s honest, it isn’t his intention to _read_ it; he’s merely curious, wants to take a peek. And after skimming the first poem, he begins to rescind whatever good morals he has left. 

The first few pages are lines tediously worded, almost too much, even for poetry—but Claude finds that the moment he reads them, they’re telling a story. So, he listens. Even the most frivolous subjects in the journal, he begins to pick apart, if just because they feel heavy. Dated.

Like they were written by someone much older and much more learned than their author.

It’s interesting. 

Claude comes across a poem after a dozen or so pages that branches from the topics of tea and flowers and beauty and pain into something darker. And he doesn’t claim to be good at analyzing the written word, but it sounds like a recount of the past, oppressive and angry. He figures out that it must be written about this L.H.G.’s father—words melodic when spoken aloud and yet, they surprise Claude with their underlying hatred. 

“Jeez, someone has daddy issues,” he mutters to himself, as if he knows anyone who _doesn’t._ But Claude has the decency to shut his mouth when he reads on and suddenly gets the feeling that the father in these poems must be dead.

He skips ahead a few pages, feeling a little bit like an asshole.

The poems he comes across now are lighter, filled with a joy and reverence he can’t explain, but each phrase holds the air of a fond memory. It takes another poem or two to piece together that this fond memory is a person that must be important to him—to L.H.G.—with dark skin and eyes like emeralds, wrapped in golden threads—

Closing the journal, Claude feels off kilter, as if he’s in a far away place, doing nothing but _thinking._ Something swims within his chest, an uncontrollable warmth consuming him slowly, and he thinks idly that it feels good. But at the same time, it feels threatening, like something he doesn’t understand quite yet. He looks at the journal and the feeling remains. 

Maybe it’s even stronger.

Claude sighs. “What am I doing?”

Or, maybe he really is a fool.

He laughs at the thought.

Tossing an arm over his eyes, he lets the book fall onto his chest with a soft _thump._

*******

“You know, sometimes you’re silent as an assassin.” Claude smiles wistfully, looking out at the vast rose garden bordering the Goneril Estate from behind an aesthetic wall of stacked stones. “You don’t make a peep, your footsteps are non-existent, and it’s not until you’ve foiled my plans that I realize you’ve gotten away with spying on me.” 

Even here, he thinks, while they’re guests in Hilda’s home and in the middle of a mission—even here, he’s being watched, spied on like some suspicious thief in the night.

“Sometimes, I even drive myself crazy, wondering how many times you’ve slipped me by.”

Silence greets him, but it somehow speaks louder than words; Claude can feel the tension between his shoulder blades, humming beneath his skin.

“But... there _are_ times when you lose your touch—or, maybe you just _wanna_ be found out.” Turning around, he leans against the stone wall and fixates on an intricate pillar beside a lone rosebush, its buds swaying with the rustling wind, not quite ready to blossom. “I know you’re there.”

The sound of rustling becomes the crunch of footsteps, Lorenz’s coy arrogance only second to the way he looks down at Claude as he steps into the moonlight—untouchable, superior. 

“What of it?” 

“You ask as if you don’t care if I know about your snooping either way.” Claude drops the reverent act, arms crossing over his chest. “I like to think we’re friends, you know, that you actually _want_ to be on my side.” 

“ _Please,_ ” Lorenz scoffs.

“I think you want me to know that, too.”

“Well, _I_ think we are done here. There is no use staying if you know I am watching,” he says, pivoting on his heel. “And I will not stand to listen to something so ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t walk away if I were you.” Claude reaches into the folds of his sari and retrieves a worn diary, gliding a hand over its textured surface before opening it to a ribboned page. “I have something you want.”

“Something _I_ want?” Sarcasm seeps from Lorenz’s mouth as he spares Claude a glance. “What could you possibly have that I—”

“ _‘Radiant he is with his pear-pine eyes, stealthy stare through my soul in a moment divine.’_ ” 

Violet eyes grow wide. Slowly, that slender body turns to face him once more, words escaping a sharp tongue as Lorenz’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. Claude looks smug, splaying his fingers across the cover of the diary so that every detail can be seen though he’s aware there can be no mistake as to whom it belongs.

“H-How... _dare_ you?” Lorenz begins, enraged. And yet, Claude sees how shaken he’s become, unable to hide his trembling, his twitching—his frowning brows framing worried eyes. “How...”

Claude takes a step forward, to truly see Lorenz, to truly gauge his fear. He wears a face Claude’s never seen, one that makes him feel he’s overstepped, but no one’s ever reaped riches without first braving the savagery of the sea. In this very moment, he outstretches his hand for such treasures; if there is danger, it’s one he doesn’t expect.

Lorenz doesn’t reach for the book when it’s offered, the tips of his fingers pressed to his parted lips, eyes staring down at it as if it were a beast. 

And maybe it is; feelings are a fearsome creature when bound together in one place. 

“Were you ever gonna tell me you felt this way?” Claude cuts the teasing, cuts the smirk and the mock and replaces them with narrowed eyes. They search endlessly for the Lorenz he practices with on the training grounds, the Lorenz he has tea with just for the chance to hear him laugh, the Lorenz that—when he feels like it—will look at Claude and smile instead of frown.

The one who shines instead of wastes away in his father’s shadow. 

“Felt what way?” Lorenz is quick to try and regain his composure, but it slips through the cracks, eyes flashing, accusing as his hands curl into fists at his sides. “How would _you_ know what I feel?”

“I don’t know, a book full of love poems about one guy is pretty telling.”

“What makes you think it’s _you?_ ”

“Who else is dark-skinned and ‘clothed in golden threads?’” Claude asks, though his question bears all the arrogance of someone who already knows the answer. “As far as I know, I’m the only one of that description who ‘wields the bow of the Goddess, piercing true the veil of’ _your_ heart.”

Lorenz looks caught between mortification and death, eyes blinking rapidly in a way that reveals the bridge between them may be tears. It’s not quite enough to make Claude feel bad about what he’s done—Lorenz does not give him the time to feel guilt with how quickly he hardens himself.

How readily he laughs behind the back of his hand.

“My, how _easily_ you fall into traps, von Riegan,” he jeers, hiding behind a domineering facade. “Have you fallen in love with me—enough to let your guard down?”

Claude scowls, tossing the journal onto the smooth stone slabs with little care as he steps into Lorenz’s personal space. Pink lips purse and he hates how bewitched he becomes by them when he’s supposed to be making a point—so soft looking, pulling and parting until they press into a thin line. 

“I refuse to believe this is another one of your father’s ploys,” Claude says lowly. “I’m too good at sniffing out the lies.”

“Leave the lies to the liar, then?” Lorenz laughs bitterly.

Claude understands endlessly his plight, and he’ll gladly take this barb if it will help Lorenz know peace. 

“Leave _all_ the lies to the liar.” Claude chances a touch—finds it thrilling in all respects, like his risk is halfway between life and death—and places his hand gently on Lorenz’s cheek. He’s cold, smooth ivory, just like Claude thought he would be. But there’s no mistaking the sudden warmth in those vibrant eyes as Lorenz leans into his touch, the dusted, rosy pink of his cheeks pretty beneath Claude’s thumb. 

He wonders if the way he strokes the petals is enough to convey his feelings. 

And then, as if the spell is broken, Lorenz freezes beneath his palm and Claude falters. His face falls like a crumbling obelisk, and his crinkling eyes and frowning brows pulls at Claude’s heart until it aches from the abuse.

Even then, he still has it in him to be the man everyone knows and loves, smiling though the gesture isn’t returned, his voice a playful lilt. “You look defeated, Gloucester.”

Lorenz sighs.

“A beautiful rose locked high in a tower—once radiant—withered and died at the flower,” he offers, one elegant hand splaying along Claude’s pressed to his cheek. “Its one and only, pride and glory— _weakness_ was the end of its story.”

“And you admit to having a weakness?”

“Too many,” Lorenz says quietly, tugging Claude’s hand away only for it to find its place curled along his jaw once again. “If I’m not careful, I won’t be strong enough to protect myself.”

“It doesn’t matter—I will protect you,” Claude promises, and for once even he feels the power of the truth in his words. “You won’t be _my_ enemy beneath any Horsebow sky, I don’t care what your old man says.”

Lorenz’s smile is full of mirth, painfully so.

And every bit as beautiful as a rose.

“What was I so worried about then?” 

Claude braves the thorns for a kiss.

*******

_Fatal is his relentless hand,_

_holding frail lungs beneath the waves,_

_until but a sunken shell lay._

Claude hangs onto every word.

He reads obsessively throughout the morning like a madman, turning page after page as he walks to his university campus, as if what he harbors is a codex holding all he needs to unravel the mysteries of the world. Through the written word, Claude learns much about this L.H.G., from his flowery, romantic view of nature to his deep, lifelong friendships.

From heartfelt odes addressed to a mother and seeded anger in the form of cutting words towards a father. 

From whimsy to regret—and then.

There are the ones that speak of love.

_Heavy weighs my burdensome heart,_

_dreaming of a touch never to come,_

_of skin warm and golden like desert sands._

It’s a colorful index, an informative encyclopedia that reveals to him every significant detail about a man he wouldn’t be able to reach otherwise. 

Selfishly, he can’t deny that he’s addicted to the sensations these poems in particular make him feel in his chest, all of the strange emotions that wash over him like rain. They follow Claude between classes, while his eyes are on the journal’s neat script and even when they’re not—constantly tied to his wake. Even now, as he sits by the fountain, every syllable is a blanket of almost understandings.

“Are you actually reading notes for class?” Snapping his head up, Claude glimpses Hilda’s baffled gaze, following her eyes to the open journal; he shuts it, saving his page with a tucked finger. “I mean, I always assumed you didn’t need to study.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Claude shrugs, raising a brow when he notices her own notes are nowhere to be seen. “Shouldn’t _you_ be studying right about now? You have a test coming up, don’t you?”

“I’m too busy for that today,” she retorts with a wave of her hand, pulling a few compacts and brushes out of her purse. “I have a date!”

“Don’t tell me it’s Raphael!” Sylvain squeezes himself between the two of them without warning, wiggling his hips until Hilda huffs and moves over, not once paying any mind to the despairing look on his face as she opens up one of her mirrors. “I thought he and I had something special.”

Claude snickers at his side.

“Nope,” Hilda answers, powdering her nose. “Marianne,” she sighs dreamily with a soft, wistful smile—very un-Hilda-like of her—before snapping her compact closed. Tossing her makeup back into her bag, most of it going unused, she gets up out of her seat. “Well, gotta go! Good luck with studying or whatever, Claude!”

“Hey, what about me?” Sylvain asks, looking mildly offended. Hilda shoves his shoulder playfully, nearly throwing him out of his seat, and sticks out her tongue as she saunters away.

“Jeez, she should not be allowed to have that kind of strength,” Sylvain mutters, rubbing at his chest as he stands himself and grabs for his backpack. “Anyway, I just stopped by for the gossip. Felix wants to hang out with Prince Charming and that _huge_ transfer student he’s always with.” He reaches forward and steals one of Claude’s long-abandoned fries. “Wanna come? The more the merrier.”

“His name is Dedue—I’m surprised Dima let you forget it.” Claude shakes his head. “And as much as I enjoy watching Felix verbally rip you a new one every fifteen minutes, I have work today.” 

“Suit yourself,” Sylvain yields, turning just in time to stop himself from bumping into one of the choir students and Claude can hear him practically purring. “Hey, _Do-ro-thea~_ ”

Claude snorts, opening the journal to the very last pages now that he’s alone. The next poems sting, all written in hurried scrawl; they barely make sense, but Claude can practically taste the disappointment when he mouths a line. He doesn’t linger on the words, just keeps turning pages, each one more crisp, less read.

_He doesn’t remember._

The line was practically dragged through the page, he can tell, handwriting nothing so perfectly penned like the rest of the poems—can’t even pass as decent. Claude clenches his jaw looking at it, no longer in that serendipitous euphoria he’s basked in all day. He thinks back to the library, pushed away before he could even get close. And even further back to that first time with Sylvain by the fountain.

 _“Do you... remember me?”_

Claude wonders if this line was written then.

There’s no time to dwell on it like he wants to, though. He wasn’t lying to Sylvain about working, and his shift starts sooner rather than later. 

Claude packs up his bag, clears off the table, and heads just one block off campus to a not too big, not too small joint that serves a combination of coffees, teas, and gourmet sweets. It’s a nice place with a good atmosphere, and though he’s not the kind of guy to frequent coffee shops, he likes it enough to work for some extra pocket change.

Besides, he’s gotten _really_ good at latte art.

The first rush of the afternoon comes and goes, Claude finding himself in a frenzy running back and forth between the storage room and the kitchen. Ashe is baking up something that looks _sinfully_ good today, and when that happens, he’s in demand of more ingredients constantly. So it’s at least a good three hours before he takes up his spot at the bar.

Edelgard is working the second bar with him, he notices, which means the last few hours of his shift are going to be full of nagging _or_ painfully quiet; he’s never sure which he likes better. 

Adding white chocolate drizzle and topping to a blended drink, Claude steps over to the call-out counter, not really needing to call out who it belongs to. Professor von Hrym is already there, awaiting his sickeningly sweet (and all too pink) drink with a bored look on his face.

“Here ya go, Teach. Strawberries and cream with double- _double_ white chocolate drizzle and those little truffle sprinkles you like.” 

“Thank you.” Professor von Hrym nods, taking the drink and picking through the colored straws until he finds an odd black one. He opens it right there at the counter, stuffing the straw through the thick whipped cream before handing the wrapper to Claude and taking a sip. 

Claude cringes at the thought of sucking down two inches of syrup and is more than thankful when von Hrym walks away with little more than a wave, clearing away the shadow he made standing there the whole time. It’s not too crowded at this time of day; most customers were take-out orders, though they expect more dine-ins at the turn of the hour. But they’ll have a waiter on duty by then. 

His love of people watching kicks in and his eyes scan the room. Claude picks out a couple of exchange students, Yuri and Balthus, talking to a loud, chatty blond that he can hear across the room. A few more professors than he usually expects are here today—he hasn’t seen Nader anywhere but the welding garage in a hot minute, but even he’s here, a spread of empty espresso shot glasses before him. 

Claude goes beyond the center tables and toward the few booths they have, none of the students ringing a bell, though he recognizes a girl with stark white hair. She’s the same one who brushed past him a couple of weeks ago when he was walking with Hilda. 

Funny—how once someone becomes recognizable, they start popping up all over.

Like the current center of his thoughts, for instance.

L.H.G. is at a booth by one of the full length windows, probably the best seat in the house for people watching. His thin fingers are tapping on the tabletop and his chin sits just so upon the top of his other hand. He stares out of the window like he’s yearning for something, like the fair maidens in all those pirate tales his uncle told him in secret as a child—longing, waiting for their love to return from war, or battle, or voyage.

Claude wonders which it is in this case.

And then he thinks that he could just ask him himself. 

Not that he wants Claude to ask him anything; he made that more than clear.

But Claude does have that journal in his backpack, and all he wants to do is talk—which, after the whirlwind of confusion he’s been exposed to this past month, he thinks he deserves it. And if he has to use the journal to get his poet friend to at least give him the time of day, so be it.

“Claude, are you listening to me?” 

Claude blinks himself out of a stupor, two fierce eyes peering up at him questioningly from behind a tray of drinks.

“Sorry, Edelgard—you need me to take that?” 

“Yes,” she sighs. “I know you’re on bar, but it looks like Linhardt is running late again.”

“Come on, you know it’s time for his late afternoon nap,” Claude jests.

She gives him a disappointed look; leave it to Edelgard to not be able to take a joke... “I only need you to run a few. We don’t have many dine-ins right now and Petra’s on her way, just in case he _sleeps_ through his shift.”

Claude thinks he sees the flicker of a smile.

Progress.

“No problem, boss.” He looks down at the ticket on the tray, grabbing the order and quickly running it over to a pair of campus councilors—Dominic and Martritz. Claude greets them with a smile, which is always returned with girlish giggles and small talk; he doesn’t mind it. They’re a sweet couple and they always give him his tips in his hand, which is something he finds pretty damn quaint for the decade they’re living in, and he could spend quite a bit of time chatting them up. 

But his mind is repeatedly reminding him of ivory skin in a pale yellow blouse across the cafe, and he chances a look at their wearer as he walks back to his station. Those plummy eyes are staring intensely at what seems like notes in a binder, one leg crossed prettily over the other beneath the table. The sight stirs up his chest like one of Edelgard’s shaken iced teas and he jabs a thumb over the bar counter. 

“Do you have that table’s order ready?” He asks nonchalantly. Edelgard takes one look in the direction he’s pointing and stares up at him with a raised brow.

“This is no time for flirting, Claude.”

“I _promise_ I won’t flirt.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe a word he says, capping a latte and sweeping past him to call the order out. Edelgard takes her sweet time getting back to the bar, leaning against the counter with one hand as she shoves the other onto her hip.

“I’ve been watching you and you haven’t been able to take your eyes off him,” she says, a little too accusingly for his tastes. He’s pretty sure he’s only been staring seventy percent of the time. Edelgard shakes her head and sighs. “I swear, it’s enough that my brother is a lovesick fool.”

“Hey, be nice to Dima, you know we’re pals.” Claude banters. “And I’m just doing my part in providing the best customer service possible. He’s been sitting there a while, you know. It’s our policy that no one waits more than—”

“ _Fine,_ ” Edelgard cuts him off, grabbing for one of the tickets on her line. “If you want to take the order, you have to make it. I haven’t gotten to it yet.” 

“You’re a doll~”

“And I’m counting this as your break.”

“Sheesh, management is tough around here.” Claude grins despite himself, taking the ticket and pulling a cafe mug from the shelf behind him. It’s a standard mocha with peppermint—completely off the mark from what he was expecting—and he gets to drawing the espresso right away, talking over the sound of the steamer as he heats the milk. “I feel overworked—underpaid!”

“Stop dilly-dallying,” she gripes, though he thinks it rather invalid, since he’s already pouring the drink into a mug.

“You know, just because you’re older than me by one month doesn’t mean you have to be so bossy.” Claude takes the mocha mug and a can of whipped cream in his hands, smug simper meeting Edelgard’s pinched brow, and he walks around the counter before she can comment on his maturity. 

He steps around a few guests, throwing them cheerful smiles just before he reaches his table, the occupied booth feeling disconnected from the rest of the cafe. Careful of the binder on the table, Claude sets down the hot mocha, watching as eyes flutter to the mug before they snap up to glare at him.

“Excuse me, I asked for whipped—” Words die on those pretty lips just as Claude expected they would and the fact that he has that effect now makes him grin. 

He gets the idea to flip the whipped cream can in his hand, spinning it around his wrist and tossing it into the air, catching it behind his back. It’s just a cheap bar trick and his audience doesn’t look _quite_ as impressed as he should be, but he’s pleased with himself when he spins the bottle back around and the top is still attached. 

_How’s that for ‘shake first?’_

Claude still shakes the can for good measure— _this method isn’t foolproof_ —winking as he tops off the mug.

“Learned that from the best,” he says, taking the seat across from L.H.G. and setting the can between them; actually, he just learned it from Sylvain’s brother when they were all hanging out at a party once. Miklan’s a bartender at some underground nightclub called ‘Abyss’ or something. 

L.H.G. doesn’t say anything—doesn’t look like he _wants_ to. In fact, he only fixes Claude with a long stare before ignoring him completely, reaching into his messenger bag on the seat beside him and pulling out a small drawstring pouch. Claude’s eyes travel from the bag to the binder he’s spotted before, noting that it’s actually a manuscript of some sort, and feels only a _little_ off-put when L.H.G. begins looking through it without bothering to look at him.

This isn’t going at all how Claude planned.

But he’s nothing if not persistent.

Leaning back in his chair, Claude tilts his head back and forth contemplatively.

“I love traveling, parties,” he says finally, letting his hands slip into the pockets of his apron, “cooking sometimes? Or well, I throw things in a pot and see how it goes—creativity often yields great results.” 

Claude’s words fall on deaf ears, but it doesn’t discourage him. 

“I like reading, too,” he says with a hum, waiting to see if he’ll be graced with an answer. He doesn’t get one—just the sound of a page turning and a sharp inhale as L.H.G. shifts in his seat. 

Still, Claude doesn’t back down. 

“Lately, I’ve been into politics... It usually isn’t my favorite, but it’s kind of amusing to think about how people are always cleaving each other’s heads off instead of talking things out peacefully, you know?”

Finally, he gets a huff—a stare even—though, it could be kinder.

“What is it you _want?_ ” A deep frown pulls at plush lips as L.H.G. looks pointedly at his apron. “Aren’t you on the clock?”

“Actually, I’m on break,” Claude rectifies, and in turn, nods at the untouched mocha. “For some reason, I expected you to be a tea drinker. Personally, I don’t care for it—or coffee, but I tend to have a lot of it when I’m pulling all-nighters—” 

“You’re not answering my question.”

Claude finds himself battling for ground, and though his stare is level, he soon relents. “I just—thought I’d get to know you.”

“That’s assuming I want to get to know _you._ ” 

“Well, I’d hope so. Just in case I’m not like the me you remember.” 

Claude never gets used to that abrupt silence; it’s deafening, wrong. Feels like a storm brewing beneath his skin, though it’s nothing close to the thrill of anticipation—that, he loves. This, well, it can be added to the small list of things he doesn’t like, right behind loose ends.

“I _want_ to know more about you,” Claude tries again—like he means it, because he does. _More than I already know from your journal,_ he doesn’t say, because it won’t work here, not now. Because the wall that’s skyscraper high between them will only get higher, because he’ll never get any closer to the truth, and he realizes that he’s wanted to ever since they met. 

Idly, he thinks that even if this Remembering Business never existed, he still would’ve been interested in this pursuit. 

Aster blooms look his way—indecisive, melancholy—and clear-painted fingertips find their way to the handle of the cafe mug.

“So, you... travel?” 

Claude lights up.

“Not as much as I used to. I’m here on a student visa, so I’m just trying to scrape on by and finish what I started before the real fun begins,” he explains, taking the bottle of whipped cream in his hands and sliding it back and forth across the table. “Then I’ll be all over this world.”

Finally, he’s rewarded with a smile, and a look that lingers on him a bit too long to be considered friendly. Claude doesn’t mind. “And what are you scraping by in?”

“It’s complicated,” he begins, wagging a finger, “but revolutionary.”

L.H.G. laughs suddenly, a waterfall of shaking laughter that Claude thinks is nice, and he can’t stop himself from grinning.

“What else?” He’s asked, thrown off by the question.

“What?” 

“Well, you started all this... Tell me who you are now.”

“Part barista, part juggler,” Claude shrugs, more than happy to comply now that they’re actually having a conversation. “Top tier gamer—and, since I moved here—mediocre surfer.” He looks up into an affectionate stare, fondness that Claude has never had directed especially toward him before. For the first time in his life, he thinks his cheeks are actually red, but he doesn’t let that stop him. “A huge history buff, but that’s partly thanks to Sylvain, he’s minoring in it—”

That fondness slips away, replaced by a bug-eyed look.

“ _He’s_ minoring in _history?_ ” And then, as an afterthought: “I’m afraid to ask what his major is.” 

Claude almost answers with a playful _‘I know, right?’_ He keeps it to himself, though, more curious about L.H.G.’s reaction. He wouldn’t have thought he knew who Sylvain was before now, but then again, there’s not any evidence that Sylvain knows _him_ at all.

“Genetics,” he says mirthfully, watching as L.H.G. grabs the drawstring bag from the table and pulls out one of those collapsible straws; it’s yellow. “You know him enough to be surprised?”

L.H.G. doesn’t answer, just drops his straw into his mocha and takes a long sip.

Claude blinks, not really sure what offends him more: the fact that his question was ignored or that he just witnessed what Hubert—Edelgard’s assistant manager—would probably consider coffee blasphemy. That drink is definitely still hot, too. He’d know, he made it.

“Did you just drink hot coffee through a _straw?_ ” Claude asks, sounding more amused than scandalized.

“Is there a problem?”

“A little.”

L.H.G. takes another sip with a smug look on his face, and Claude lets the electric current buzzing through his skin race through him at lightspeed.

“You really are unpredictable,” he says without thinking, though he chalks up his response to a newly discovered strange habit. Claude regrets it immediately when L.H.G.’s soft gaze falls, brows creasing and lips parting ever so slightly. 

He looks like he’s in pain.

Those gemstone eyes are no longer staring at him fondly; he receives no more affectionate smiles, and Claude is suddenly angry with himself even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he didn’t actually say anything wrong.

“Hey, I—” Claude begins, but Edelgard’s waving her hand to grab his attention, calling for him over the counter.

“Break’s over! Our evening rush is here,” she tells him, though it sounds more like a command, and Claude fights himself—looking between shining sugilites and the red flurry rushing behind the bar. He settles on the former despite being rushed by the latter. “Hurry it up!”

“You should go,” a hushed tenor voices, and Claude doesn’t even indulge himself in describing its perfectly even texture. 

He just exhales through his nose, his own voice a disappointed sigh.

“Right.”

Grabbing the whipped cream, Claude slides out of the booth and jogs back to his bar station, Petra giving him a warm smile he politely returns. He makes order after order in a daze, playing back the conversation in an attempt to figure out what went wrong while Edelgard complains about Linhardt’s potential and how it’s wasted on his lack of passion. He thinks about the journal in his bag, about a ‘next time,’ and maybe about how his next time might be the last time if he returns it. 

But if they could sit down once and talk, maybe they can do it again, just the two of them. 

Him and...

Claude jabs a button on the espresso machine, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t even asked for his name.

*******

“Lorenz.”

Metal clashes, but not in battle. 

Claude stares at Lorenz’s back as he freezes, just about to step into the stables, shoulders seizing together as armored plates scrape against one another. Lorenz turns around slowly, ridiculously slow, as though he’s hoping by the time he looks back Claude won’t be there. However, Claude didn’t rise to lordship without demonstrating patience. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waits dutifully until he’s gazing upon the most precious thing the world has ever known.

“Can you not see that I am busy?” 

And the rudest mouth it will ever hear.

“Doing what?” Claude asks, but Lorenz doesn’t grace him with an answer, disappearing into the stables for a handful of minutes. When he returns, it’s with his horse, Adonia, hands tight on the reins as Lorenz pets at her snout excessively. He makes a beeline for the marketplace, but Claude intercepts them both, spreading his arms. “Come on, it’s like you’re avoiding me or something.” 

Lorenz purses his lips, seemingly annoyed as he looks beyond Claude; it turns into a small pout. “I am not... avoiding _you._ ”

“Then who are you avoiding, because it seems like you’re avoiding me.”

“It’s that...” Lorenz gestures in the direction he was staring and Claude looks over his shoulder to his wyvern, wings folded as she waits patiently for him to return. 

_Ah._

“It’s?” Claude goads when he returns his attentions to Lorenz, though his lover’s reasons for canceling plans, disappearing from rooms, and just blatantly turning the other cheek are suddenly presented with crystal clear clarity. “It’s _that...?_ ”

“That _beast,_ ” Lorenz scoffs, brows pinching together angrily. “She hates me.”

“Barbarossa?” Claude exclaims in mock surprise, biting the inside of his cheek as, having heard her name, the thundering sound of his wyvern’s footsteps come thumping his way. Lorenz looks up warily, and out of his peripherals, Claude sees that Barbarossa doesn’t look too happy either. He reaches up to place a hand on her snout, warm breath breezing over his palm. “I see. You think she hates you, so you avoid me.”

“She does and you _know it,_ Claude,” Lorenz retorts, squawking in surprise when Adonia pulls at her reins without warning. He tugs her back to his side, glaring at Barbarossa before setting his piercing gaze on Claude, as if he’s the one who scares his horse. “And you are _always_ with her, therefore, I see no reason to be with you.”

“Not always!” Claude whines, though there’s not a bit of seriousness in his tone; he finds this all quite amusing. “Are you jealous?” His lips curl into a grin and he relishes _just a little_ when Lorenz crosses his arms over his chest, cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “Come on, Lorenz. In her defense, you basically snarled at her the first time I introduced you. She didn’t take kindly to that.”

“ _Of course,_ defend _her_ before _me._ ” 

Lorenz scowls up at Barbarossa and even Claude is surprised when she snarls back, her chest rumbling hard enough to quake the ground at his feet.

“Hey, now,” Claude says slowly, skeptically. “Calm down, you two.”

“I am _perfectly_ calm,” Lorenz says, words clipped.

Barbarossa sniffs as though she doesn’t believe him.

“Barba—”

“Cheeky.”

“ _Lorenz._ ”

Claude watches as the two of them step toward each other, his hands raised in surrender as he laughs nervously, the nature of this argument... unexpected. As much as he loves the idea of two cuties fighting over him, they’re both looking a _little_ too serious for his liking. When Lorenz bares his teeth, Claude finds it appropriate to interrupt their heated staring competition, slipping between them both.

“Love of my life,” Claude says—overly adoring in tone, but sincerely—as he wraps his arms around Lorenz and pulls him close. Crossed arms meet his chest and Barbarossa begins growling behind him, but he ignores them both. “Owner of my heart—”

“Who will it be, her or me?” 

“She’s my best girl!” He exclaims, a little put off by the suggestion. Claude stares up at Lorenz with a small frown, though he can’t help that it melts into a fond smile as he squeezes that slight waist. “You know you’re my best everything else.”

Lorenz sulks.

“And you know I can’t stand to have to choose between either of you,” Claude tilts his head back slightly, his hand on the small of Lorenz’s back sliding up to pry his crossed arms apart. He drapes one over his shoulder, pleased when the other follows naturally. “ _And_ you know that she’s just as important to me as Addy is to you.” 

“Her name is _Adonia,_ ” Lorenz corrects pretentiously, though Claude can feel his hands clasping together around his neck, body sinking into his embrace despite the fact that Lorenz doesn’t want to look at him. “And—I do suppose I can... _perhaps_ see where you are coming from.”

“So, you understand that she’s part of my life,” Claude nods. “But she’ll never take _your_ place. That’d be pretty weird,” he laughs, grinning when Lorenz looks down at him disapprovingly. With a smartly placed kiss on the corner of those too pink lips, Claude hums. “Promise you’ll try to get along?”

Lorenz’s eyes roll to Claude’s left where Barbarossa must be; he sighs exasperatedly.

“Very well... I promise.”

“Great!” Claude allows Lorenz to slip from his hold and turns toward his trusty sidekick where she sits hunched, lips drawn over her teeth like an angry—but absolutely harmless—Vestra Chihuahua. “You, too. No more picking fights, either of you,” he scolds, waiting for a few moments before, as Hilda says, ‘booping her snoot.’ “Well?”

Barbarossa huffs, reining in her snarl and lowering her head.

Pleased, he steps over to Adonia, petting her head as Lorenz mounts her saddle.

“Glad we got this settled. Now,” Claude begins, “meet me tonight at the tower?”

Dipping down, Lorenz meets him halfway for a clumsy kiss. 

“I will be there.”

“It’s a date.” Claude pulls away with a flirtatious twinkle in his eye, stepping back once, twice, three times until Barbarossa is nosing into his back. He turns to grab the strap of her saddle, jumping up onto it with a flourish. Looking over at Lorenz for the last time before nightfall, he winks. “Tonight!”

“I swear it!” Lorenz calls back, taking Adonia’s reins. And then, as a muttered afterthought, “So long as you don’t bring _her._ ”

Barbarossa unfurls her wings and knocks him right off his horse.

*******

Claude spent the weekend studying the journal cover to cover.

He took in every page as though there’s more between the lines than the messages obscured in metaphorical phrases. As though there are mysteries to be unraveled about himself. As though all the questions piling up in his head can be answered, mapped out in the perfect curves of slanted script.

As though there’s a reason he’s been captured in his waking life by the same man who’s taken him in his sleep.

And now he knows they’re one and the same. 

Because last night he remembered his dream.

Almost completely this time—not just weird bits and pieces or familiar feelings, but the whole thing. He can recall it like a fond memory, can feel his hands on a scaley wyvern’s snout. And violet hair, long and beautiful, so alike the man Claude sees when he’s awake as opposed to the one in snippets of earlier dreams—whose hair was much shorter and, if he may say, wack as hell. 

Claude laughs to himself from his seat in one of the lounge chairs in the Bergliez Hall lobby, shoving his fist in his mouth as he reads to keep a loud guffaw at bay. It physically _hurts_ to suppress his amusement, and a few stray, choking giggles escape him. 

Man, whoever gave him that haircut was a _genius._

He simmers down after a moment, thinking it a wonder that a simple thought can leave him so overjoyed and so confused at the same time.

As hilarious as it is to think about, a detail as small as that still begs the question of time. In Claude’s dreams, L.H.G. appeared to be older—which makes Claude believe that they both must be—his physique less boyish and much more like it is now. 

But that’s not the strangest part.

The setting felt dated, almost medieval, with creatures he’s only seen in television shows and pop-up books. It was an experience—knights walking cobblestone paths and weapons on every hip, gorgeous views of a single stone colossus stretching as far as the eye can see. So extraordinary that it felt magical.

Almost like another life.

Claude puts the journal down, ignoring the pulling sensation in his chest. His heart begins beating hard, daring to burst from his ribcage, as if it really entertains such a crazy thought. He finds his palms sweating and his mind racing, so irritatingly involuntary that it puts the itch in his fingers to lock himself away in his room and overthink everything down to the most meticulous detail.

Looking down at the book, Claude rises from his seat, suddenly thinking that it’s time he gave it back.

He scours the school campus; the library, the creative writing hall, the performing arts building— _just in case—_ but he doesn’t quite have luck on his side, it seems L.H.G. isn’t anywhere Claude hopes he’ll be. But it’s not like him to just give up. When he enters the Hevring where Hilda takes most of her classes in, he’s intent on finding his poet. 

That’s when he hears Sylvain’s voice.

“ _Felix._ ”

“I don’t want to hear this again,” comes a snapping retort, and Claude rushes to hide behind the giant raised fish tank as their voices get closer, not wanting to get caught up in last minute plans. “Your same old talk of second chances is boring.”

Claude doesn’t move from his spot behind one of the lionfish, raising a brow at the topic of their conversation. What he would usually think is just those two bantering for the millionth time in their lives carries the tension of an argument, something he’s not used to Sylvain being a part of. Curiosity gets the better of Claude then, and since he’s got a track record for spying this week, he figures peeking around the tank to see what’s going on wouldn’t hurt. 

Felix is leaning against the wall of a narrow hallway, arms crossed over his chest and lips curled into a frown as he glares up at Sylvain.

“You seemed pretty interested in Dimitri’s second chance.” When Sylvain doesn’t get an answer, he sighs, splaying a hand on the wall beside Felix’s head. “Life is so much easier now than it was all those years ago.”

“You’re right,” Felix agrees, though he’s scowling. “Nowadays, if I wanna know you’re playing the field, all I have to do is check your DMs.”

“It isn’t like that.” Claude winces at Sylvain’s desperation, watches as his hand on the wall curls into a fist. His frowning brows contradict the curve of his lips, the lightness of his voice when he tries to explain, “there’s no sneaking around now, no obligations to houses—”

“No war, right? No picking _sides,_ Sylvain?”

Sylvain’s face pinches in frustration, crumbles, and pinches again as if he’s trying not to lose his composure. And when he’s able to smile again, he does. 

It’s his greatest weapon, he always says, only now Claude believes him.

“We have freedom here, Felix. We can have this.”

“We had freedom then, but you just...” Felix clamps his mouth shut with an audible _snap._ “Forget it. I don’t know what _‘this’_ you think you’re talking about. There’s nothing between us that you can call a ‘this.’ Not anymore.”

“You can’t hold that over my head when it was _you_ who—” Sylvain cuts himself off, urgency dying, and his voice softens as he tries to close the distance between them. “Things don’t have to be the way they were, Felix.”

Felix kicks off the wall, slapping the hand away that reaches for him.

“Maybe in another life,” he says sarcastically. 

“We might not get another life,” Sylvain counters.

“For the better.”

It’s eerily silent. Like a dead sleep, dreamless and full of nothing but the anticipation of something more despite the fact that it may not come. Suffocating, empty, only shattering at the sound of a bitter ‘hmph’ and footsteps walking away.

Claude stops listening. 

He stands there, picks apart the conversation like it holds some sort of answer to his own problem. But instead of mulling over lines like _‘all those years ago’_ and _‘no war, right?’_ —or anything that doesn’t sound logical but _feels_ like it makes sense (or even the fact that there’s definitely something more than _friendship_ going on between them)—he agonizes over second chances.

_“We might not get another life.”_

What if...

What if _he_ doesn’t get another life?

Claude’s not sure how to answer that question despite being the only one who can.

But he has to do something to quell his raging heartbeat, and as he looks at the journal in his hands, somehow a source of warmth and absolution—he knows, at this moment, there’s nothing more important than finding the person whom it belongs to.

And finding him now.

He thinks it best that he backtracks to the library and comb through the halls again, that he’ll find him if he keeps pressing forward. And with new resolve, Claude turns to sprint back from the direction he came. 

Sylvain stands in his way.

“‘Sup, dude?” His arm hangs over the top of the fish tank, a hand shoved onto his jutted hip. Anyone else would’ve thought it a pretty natural look for him, but Claude knows better; he’s off. 

And he’s staring right at Claude because he knows the reason.

Claude feels caught in the headlights for a second, the unspoken _‘I won’t bring it up if you don’t’_ dancing around them awkwardly.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs.

Sylvain looks at him oddly—a look that, at any other time, Claude would undeniably question and follow up with an invitation to play video games while they share the only bean bag chair he has. But he doesn’t; he watches as this look morphs from one strange gut-twisting stare to another.

Then Sylvain smiles at him like nothing’s wrong before he realizes that it isn’t directed toward him at all. Claude looks down at the journal in his hands and back up to see that Sylvain’s shoved a thumb in the direction of the entrance to the botanical gardens, as if telling Claude that it’s the only place he hasn’t looked in all his searching. 

“‘Kay, well—I think what you’re looking for’s in there,” is all he says, reaching out to clap a hand on Claude’s shoulder, brushing past him. 

It feels wrong to say anything now, not when Sylvain’s walking away, fisting his own hair like he’s fighting with himself. It’d feel like taking something for granted, or stealing a moment Sylvain needs to take all for his own, so he tells himself that they’ll talk about this another time—when it calls for it, when they can both take their hearts seriously. 

And Claude will thank him.

But for now, he makes toward the botanical gardens and slips inside. 

The botanical gardens is a massive maze of twisting walkways. There’s every type of strange flower imaginable, stalks and trees of different sizes, all towering as high as the frosted glass roof will allow. It’s empty around this time of day, slightly humid, and the air is misty as he makes his way through. He sniffs, wrinkling his nose. 

Claude never did take to coming here often; the overwhelming number of plants and the floral, earthy smells just don’t feel like home to him. 

The sight of a pretty man surrounded by wild roses shouldn’t, either, but Claude doesn’t think much into it.

L.H.G. doesn’t notice him approaching, seemingly lost in thought. He’s sitting on one of the marble benches alone, but he’s winsome in this element, looking wistfully out at the flowers blooming skyward, modest smile on his face. The idea that he comes here to study or enjoy time by himself is one Claude finds endearing, wondering if this is a source of inspiration for all of his poetry, too. 

_“Tell me who you are now.”_

Claude thinks that he must know.

Remembering the journal, Claude makes himself known, letting his footsteps clack just a little bit louder; violet eyes meet his and he finds that the pale yellow geisha roses trembling under the weight of dew complement them beautifully.

“You’re a poet,” Claude says confidently, as if they were just casually talking over coffee for twenty minutes, outstretching his hand and revealing the journal. “That’s who you are. Not a thespian—a poet.”

“Why on _earth_ would you think me a _thespian?_ ” He’s never seen someone so comically offended, and Claude suppresses a laugh—and the need to point out that he must be the _Shakespeare_ if not the thespian—just in time for those furrowed brows to shoot up in surprise. “Oh, my poetry book!”

“I found it the other day,” he admits, staring intently as slender hands reach for the journal, a sensation in his chest like swarming butterflies overtaking him when the tips of their fingers touch. Claude voices, without thinking: “I’m sorry about your dad.”

Hands freeze mid-motion, the horrified look on his poet’s face the same as it was in his dreams—only this time, he actually feels ashamed. 

“You _read_ it?” It’s snatched from Claude’s hands completely and pulled to a chest adorned in a floral pattern and pearly buttons; he stares at the delicate way those electric fingers treat the journal, wrapping around it like a guarded treasure. “This is personal!”

“Sorry, it’s not usually my speed to snoop,” he lies, though he feels bad about it for the first time in his life.

“Right,” is the clipped response Claude gets, as if he knows not to believe him. Mister Poet hugs his book closer to his chest, lifting himself from the bench. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“You’re driving me a little crazy, you know?” Claude admits. “Will you ever stop running away and just talk to me? Tell me why I seem to upset you so much.” 

“Why do you care?”

“Because this is upsetting you.” Claude cuts in before he can get away, closing the distance between them and blocking the walkway ahead, staring up at a pained face. “How do you know me? I don’t think I’ve ever met you before, but” he trails off, and it feels like he’s betraying all of his dreams, but he just wants to confirm what he thinks he already knows. 

Claude’s met with a deep frown.

“If you can’t remember on your own, what’s the use?”

*******

Claude is at a roadblock—again. 

Though he hates to admit it, he’s always been cut out for war. His cunning, his tactical skill, and the thrill of every moment being one misstep away from life or death are things he thrives on. 

But that was when he believed that the only person he had to look after was himself. 

Now, there are people expecting things of him, hoping that he can bring peace to a land that isn’t even his own, calling him by a name they’d be shocked to know is false. It’s troublesome, because he thought he’d be able to run away from it all, that he could hand Dimitri his relic and—

Dimitri.

Claude closes his eyes for a long moment. What a great loss.

None of his former plans will come to fruition now. 

Scratching his chin, Claude faces his new reality, and a handful of old school friends that face him back. 

“What’s our strategy?” Leonie asks, shoving her hands onto her hips.

“We need more troops.” Claude drags his finger along the decades-old map, countless scribbles taking up the margins as his brows knit together with enough tension to cause a headache. “We took Myrddin, but Gloucester territory has pulled reinforcements from the Empire.”

“The odds of us being able to slip by are little to none,” Linhardt adds. A voice across the table follows. 

“And a frontal assault is out of the question.” Ashe worries his bottom lip and hugs himself with an arm, turning to Claude with urgency in his innocent eyes. It’s a shame, Claude thinks, that he’s been dragged into this. He silently hopes they’ll be the winning side. “Time is of the essence and we can’t afford back to back battles. We need to gather our strength for Enbarr.”

“Leave it to me.” 

Claude opens his mouth to speak only to clamp it shut when his gracious volunteer steps forward. Deep, heavy-lashed eyes meet his own as Lorenz looks to the map and settles on his tapping fingers, to which Claude immediately ceases his motion, lips pressing into a thin line.

“What would ‘it’ be?” He asks, and the air fills with the sudden tension he’s created. Lorenz doesn’t bat an eye.

“There are plenty of reserves in Gloucester territory. Whether they’ve pulled reinforcements or not, plenty of them can be persuaded to our cause. I will go retrieve them on my own come tomorrow.”

Ashe looks wary. “That sounds rather dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Which is why it isn’t going to happen.” Claude glares in Ashe’s direction, though he doesn’t mean to, and he swiftly averts his gaze back to silken hair and perfectly polished armor. “A mission like that is out of the question.”

“I’ll rally my troops,” Lorenz protests, and it burns beneath Claude’s skin that he would so easily brush off his authority, though he has the gall to at least look apologetic for it. “I know my house—it won’t be easy, but it is possible.”

“If we added them to our ranks, we could surely turn this around,” Linhardt hums, fingers thoughtfully grasping his chin. “I think it’s a risk we should take.”

“Glad you see it my way.” A confident smile graces Lorenz’s pale face as his fist curls victoriously before his chest. “I should be not but seven days past—”

“ _No,_ ” Claude says with finality that dares to hear protest. And as Lorenz steps forward, mouth parting with that very courage, he lifts a hand to silence him. “I’ve made my decision.”

It takes several long moments before Lorenz becomes red with fury—or maybe embarrassment, for being cast aside like an incapable child—but Claude doesn’t drop his hand, not until he’s sure the idea won’t be spoken of again. And he’s sure it won’t, because Lorenz pierces him with a glare most hateful before turning on his heel and storming from the room.

 _Coward,_ he swears he can hear Lorenz say, but he doesn’t change his mind and can only offer apologies.

There’s a long-standing silence as he focuses on the map before him.

“So,” Linhardt drawls boredly. “If we’re not going to make use of our best option, I say we plot our graves now. I’ll take the one nearest the vault.”

“Now’s not the time for your petty comments, Lin,” Leonie scolds with a shake of her head. “Stresses are high and you aren’t helping.”

“All that aside, we need to start thinking of another way _now,_ ” Ashe says in a rare moment of authority, powerful enough to make even Claude pay attention to more than just his map. “We’re nowhere closer to an answer.”

“Give me tonight.” He rolls up the territories, ties it shut with every intention of opening it back up when there’s no one around to interrupt his thoughts. Claude fixes them all with a level gaze, making sure he’s caught the eye of every general in the room. “I’ll have one for you in the morning.”

Claude leaves them and holes up in his shared chambers for hours thereafter.

The map lying on the ground before Claude mocks him, his scribbled notes strewn about bearing no results; they’re nothing now, just wasted time and ink and paper. No matter how many times his eyes glide over the territories, no passage becomes any clearer, no sources more resourceful. They can march within the shadows of their own territory, of Imperial territory, but that would soon leave them surrounded with no further checkpoints captured. It would only save lives for days more and then they would all perish in the emperor’s fire. 

Claude has to concede then; they need more troops. 

They’ve collected many soldiers in five years’ time, many weapons, and have tactfully claimed victory in many battles with little casualty—but now is not where they can afford to falter. Capturing Imperial grounds one by one is the only way to ensure they survive this war. 

Gloucester County is the first on his list. 

And Lorenz wants to step in on his own and _recruit._

In truth, he may just be the only one able to do so successfully. 

But the risk is too great. 

The latch on the door clicks as it opens and the sight of cascading, violet strands falling over a thin, white tunic pulls Claude’s attention away from the mess on the floor like a casted spell. Lorenz steps inside and brings the greenhouse with him, light and floral, body clad in loungewear. He must have just come from the baths.

Claude regards him with a soft smile, forgetting about the incident from the briefing room instantly, only to be reminded when Lorenz fails to greet him. He doesn’t speak his name, doesn’t walk over and glide his fingers into his hair or laugh when Claude presses a cheek into his thigh.

He simply grabs his satchel, picking through their things and packing as though he’s been called into battle.

“What are you doing?” Claude rises from the floor, hasty steps taking him across the room.

“Whatever you are too afraid to let me do,” Lorenz says matter-of-factly, reaching into their stash of concoctions and placing a couple into his bag. “You’re letting emotion cloud your judgement and frankly, I don’t think you are capable of pulling soldiers without my help.”

“Oh, _I’m_ not capable _?_ ” Claude’s rage is sudden, powerful, and though he knows not to be offended by Lorenz’s petty words, his fear overcomes him. “I think you’re forgetting who leads this army.”

“I am perfectly aware—I lie with him every night.” There’s a snap in his voice that rubs Claude the wrong way; he fails to respond, and Lorenz scoffs. “Do you really think that _you_ would be better at persuading the men and women who have served me my entire life to join our cause? I highly doubt it.”

“And you think _you_ can pull the soldiers from Gloucester territory right under your father’s nose after you so openly betrayed them? They tried to kill you not five minutes after.”

“I _remember,_ ” Lorenz counters harshly, voice cracking. “You took that hit.”

Claude is silenced. 

It’s amazing, he thinks, how Lorenz can sound so enraged and at the same time, devastated. Violet eyes finally pierce through him, and Claude regards how he stands in all his expensive, noble glory—face twisted in agony. And then it dawns on Claude, that this is his _lover,_ not his enemy. 

That they are a team treading the same path, walking endlessly side by side, willing to make all the same sacrifices for the people they care about. 

Claude’s flames of rage are all but extinguished then, and he steps forward, reaching out until his arm falls around a slight waist—until his hand finds a smooth, pale cheek. 

And he allows softness in his voice.

“You cried.”

“You need not remind me, von Riegan,” Lorenz rebukes, though he falls ever closer into Claude’s embrace. Fingers walk along his chest, fiddle with the clasp of his cape and the smooth metal of his embellishments; but he sees not the worry in Lorenz’s nervous touches, only the masterpiece of his softened expression and the eyes Claude adores pleading with him. “I can _do_ this, Claude.”

“I don’t _want_ you to,” he admits in his weakness. 

“It’s not about what you want, darling.”

Claude’s jaw locks. He knows Lorenz is right—knows that, in this time where many different casts of justice exist and the world is never at rest, he can’t afford to be selfish. But Claude knows _nothing_ but selfishness, nothing but ulterior motives, and if it were up to him, he’d pass the baton and slip the borders with everything that _really_ matters.

His time in Fódlan has softened his heart.

Even more reason to win this war; he’ll save them all and steal his lover away as repayment.

Grasping Lorenz’s face in his hands, he inhales the scent of rosewater; at any other time, he would’ve laughed at such an obvious choice in perfume.

“Under no circumstances are you allowed to come back dead,” he whispers instead. “You can’t die on me.”

“I won’t.” Lorenz calms him, strokes along his cheek with gentle fingers, thumbs the scruff of his beard—smiles when Claude sighs. “I know my limits and I know my strengths. They will not say no to the likes of me.”

And Claude believes him.

Believes in the tender touches that follow, that lead them to their shared bed, that divest him of fear as well as clothing and coax him open like books of poetry spoken in sighs beneath the glow of candlelight. Claude doesn’t think anymore of sending Lorenz away to a place where he can’t reach him, only relishes in the fact that they’ve become one and wherever his enchanting rose goes, his spirit will inevitably be. 

Late into the night, he finds his lips pressed to a beating heart, the soft vibration of humming tickling his hairline as fingertips dance across his back. It’s comfortably quiet, heavenly, like the score of a lullaby. And Claude only dares break the silence when he spots a familiar journal perched on their bedside table.

“Read me something,” he says against porcelain skin. “Something of yours.” 

“Again?” 

“You know I like hearing your poetry.” Claude grins when their gazes meet. “Especially when it’s about me.”

“Full of yourself,” a soft voice murmurs, amused, though he reaches for the book anyway.

“Says _you._ ”

Lorenz laughs and Claude doesn’t even care when the edges of the journal dig into his shoulder because soft lips press to his crown, effectively distracting from the bristly pages. 

A few moments more of silence pass; a quiet decision is made, another kiss bestowed. 

“Two stars keep their distance, waltzing in the dim of dusk—chasing after one another until they finally touch,” Lorenz reads quietly, voice thick, spilling with the romance his very being radiates. “Two stars once apart, come together as one. I thought aloud ‘that would be us,’ but alas...” 

And he sighs. 

“You are the sun.”

*******

Claude wants a chance. 

Or, maybe the chance he wants isn’t one he’s going to get, but he does want to apologize at the very least _._ For his invasion, for his persistence, for being some sort of _psychological burden?_ He needs to, to feel sane, like there can still be some kind of closure for weeks of not knowing what the hell is going on anymore.

The nagging in his chest, biting, clawing—it won’t go away. And no matter what Claude does to get his mind off of purple hair, pretty eyes, Specimen, Pretty Boy, _Gorgeous_ —he can’t.

He just wants a _chance_ , even if it’s the last one; not that he’s sure he can give up, but if it comes to that, he can try. 

“You sure this is the place, Hilda?”

Claude clicks a button, turning the camera around and lifting his phone to the dorm building he’s standing in front of: The Macuil. It’s not overly large, at least, not as big as The Indech or The Cichol, but it’s apparently the most luxurious—he doesn’t know how he expected anything less. 

All frills and high-dollar price tags, after all.

“Hmm, yep! Marianne says that purple guy you have the hots for lives in the same dormitory as Ferdinand—this is the one!”

“Great! You’re the bomb, Hildy~”

“I know,” she sighs girlishly, a pleased smile on her face when he flips the camera again.

“How is Marianne, by the way?” Sylvain hangs over his shoulder, his big, dumb face taking up most of the camera. That cute smile falls right off her lips, eyes growing wide.

“Wait, is that _Sylvain?_ ”

“I’ve been here the whole time!”

“ _Claude._ ”

“What?” Hilda shoots Claude a look that just screams long, drawn _‘hel-lo.’_ He doesn’t really get it, shrugging off her stare. “Look, I’m telling you, I don’t live here. I needed Sylvain to bring me the tools.”

Sylvain holds up a card, grinning. “Dorm badge—belongs to Raphael.”

Hilda squawks, slamming her hands on her desk so loud, its sound becomes radio static. “Wait, _what?_ ”

“Yeah, _what?_ ” Claude adds.

“We’re close now!” Sylvain shrugs, waving his hands defensively after he’s met with two dumbfounded looks. “Not like that.”

“A-ny-way...” Hilda begins, “I hope you get to talk to your guy, Claude. Marianne and I are rooting for you!”

“Hold on, did she not give you a name?” Claude’s brows knit; he was kind of hoping she would.

“Oh, yeah!” Hilda gasps, and Claude’s heart shoots up into his throat, pulse thrumming in his ears as she taps at her cheek. “It’s L—....Lo? Lah-la-la... I forgot.” A pause. “L-something.”

Claude deflates. “Thanks, Hilda, really.”

“Anytime!” She laughs, though it sounds less cheerful and more guilty. “I have to go now, but uh—don’t do anything my brother wouldn’t want me to do~”

Hilda hangs up and Claude swears to himself that he’s going to pick on her relentlessly for the next two weeks. 

“Well, her work here is done,” Sylvain says, nudging his shoulder and waving the card in front of him. “Let’s go try this puppy out.”

* * *

Their plan ends up being a complete bust.

With one swipe of the card, they were denied, the red buzzing of the card reader ringing negative no matter how many times Sylvain swiped. And it was only after they stood there like idiots for a good ten minutes that Sylvain admitted Raphael lives in The Indech— _so of course different dormitories require different cards._

However, Claude being himself wasn’t so ready to turn tail and leave just yet, pulling out the keys to his apartment. He’d unfolded the lockpick attached to his survival keychain, intent on getting them in manually via the key slot at the bottom of the sliding door. 

Unfortunately, Sylvain’s encouraging chants got them caught.

Go figure.

 _“Excuse me,”_ a man with long, flowing hair—who Sylvain supplied was Ferdinand—had said a touch too politely. _“I was told that when a miscreant such as yourself sets their mind to something, they can be quite... persevering, but to think he was actually right—you really_ **_would_ ** _try anything.”_

What did he mean by that?

Who even _talks_ like that?

But, odd vernacular aside, Ferdinand isn’t entirely wrong. 

In fact, that’s why Claude’s standing in front of the dorm building where he started, chin in his grasp as he goes over several different actions he could take—one he quickly dashed as it involves _involving_ Ferdinand and that is something he definitely doesn’t want to do. Instead, he scans the premise with his eyes, not seeing many options for himself—which is a shame.

He really didn’t want to go home without seeing him tonight.

Just before he tells Sylvain that they should just throw in the towel and chill at his place for the rest of the evening, he sees something. Claude zeroes in on an open window, light pouring out from it, a flicker moving from one side to another once, twice.

He catches sight of that flicker as it pauses in front of the window, arranging something Claude can’t see. 

With a disbelieving _‘huh,’_ he’s suddenly reminded of a cool night at the monastery, breeze whipping his face with every beat of his wyvern’s alabaster wings as he coos her into a halt outside of an open window. 

Claude thinks fondly about eyes flashing from inside warm quarters, pretty mouth shouting at him to take his _‘flaming beast’_ away before said flaming beast snorts a huge, hot breath into perfectly styled hair and effectively turns it into a knotted mass of flyaways.

Something about the memory makes him laugh, and then, it shuts him up because he’s suddenly not sure why he’s laughing in the first place. He didn’t dream _that._

But just thinking about it gives him new resolve.

“So, what are we gonna do?” Sylvain asks from beside him, inclining his head toward the lit window, already aware of just who Claude’s looking at.

“Let’s climb up there.” He looks around the dormitory’s patio, spotting a bench right where he needs it to be. Claude looks up at Sylvain, tilting his head toward it. “You’ll help me out with this, right?”

“You know I will.” Sylvain claps his hands together, walking toward the bench before he says nonchalantly over his shoulder, “he’s the guy from your dreams, isn’t he? Let’s go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Alright, alright.” Claude grins, following behind.

Then, he pauses, staring at Sylvain’s retreating back.

Because Sylvain _knows_ this is about the guy from his dreams.

And Claude’s never told him that.

“What are you waiting for, dude?” Sylvain waves him over and Claude decides that he’ll think about that later. For now, he raises a brow as Sylvain pats the bench and drops to one knee.

Hysterically, Claude notes not ten minutes later, the two of them stacked on top of each other while on top of a bench is just enough to reach the window. He doesn’t even have to stand on Sylvain’s shoulders; sitting on them, he finds, is just fine.

“You okay down there?” 

“Our friendship gives me strength,” Sylvain grunts out, gripping Claude’s knees and shifting from one foot to another to ground himself on the rickety bench. “But you still owe me for this.”

“Oh, mad favors.” 

Clasping his hands around the protruding frame, Claude looks through the window and spots L.H.G. sitting in front of a vanity—because _of course_ someone who wears _that_ much floral definitely has one—hand wrapped around a brush that he runs through his hair methodically. His gaze is downcast and it takes a moment before their eyes lock in the mirror, but Claude wastes no time waving him over when they do, smiling from ear to ear. 

L.H.G. spins around in his chair and Claude gets a full load of his sleep short-robe-slipper ensemble as he stands up and marches over, looking none too happy. And when he unlatches the lock and opens the window, it’s with such a strength that the entire frame rattles.

“What in the—what are you _doing?_ ” 

“Ya know. Just chillin’.” Claude rests his elbows on the windowsill now that he has the room, grin simmering into a self-satisfied smirk. There’s something wonderfully familiar and simultaneously brand new about the pissy look he gets in return, and he minds his straws, just in case he does something to get the last one pulled.

“You’re insane.” A hand reaches forward like it’s going to grab for Claude’s arm or take his hand, but he suddenly snatches it back against his chest with a defeated sigh. “How are you even up here?”

“Wasn’t easy. Had to use a bench.” 

“This is the second floor.”

“I’m sitting on my buddy’s shoulders right now. He’s a real pal.”

“All in the name of _lov—_ ” 

Claude shuts Sylvain up with a clock over the head.

“You did that just to get to my window?” That smile could light up the night, Claude thinks, and it’s almost sad to see it hidden behind the back of a manicured hand. Still, he looks pleased and maybe a little flustered, and Claude doesn’t anticipate the amusement in his eyes when he asks, “you couldn’t have used the front door?”

“I was trying to pick the lock, but apparently you were prepared and had it guarded.” 

Eyes that Claude finds prettier by the minute blink owlishly and then, in the very next second, screw shut with gentle laughter. His chest is a cage of butterflies as he watches a pale hand rub along two red cheeks. “You really haven’t changed.”

Claude exhales a deep breath, suddenly remembering why he’s here. “Listen, I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?”

“For stealing your poems—for reading them—for...” He struggles with the right words, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, for not understanding you?” And he doesn’t mean for it to come off as a question, like he’s unsure, but it’s a little too late to save himself. “Until now—I guess. I mean, who knew you could learn so much about a guy from his diary.”

“It’s not a _diary,_ it’s a _personal_ journal.” 

Sylvain chooses that moment to buckle beneath him and they nearly keel backwards. One sharp gasp and an inhuman warble later, Claude’s hands are anchored to the window sill; glinting amethysts look down at Sylvain, unimpressed.

“Anyway,” L.H.G. begins, “it doesn’t matter to me. You’ve said your piece, so, thank you.” 

Claude doesn’t move his hands away from the windowsill, the both of them looking at each other pensively in the long pause. 

“You’re not leaving,” that even tenor stresses.

“Can we just talk?” Claude asks, trying not to sound defeated.

“I dunno,” Sylvain calls sarcastically from beneath him, struggle evident in his voice. “ _Can_ you?”

Claude kicks his chest with the heel of his foot, satisfied with the pained grunt and incoherent muttering that follows. 

“I’m just trying to figure out who you are,” he says seriously, grasping the window frame as he leans in closer. Those expressive eyes that kept devoted contact with his avert themselves, an almost melancholy veil falling over them as rosy lips frown. Claude sighs, frustrated. “I disappoint you.”

“No!” 

“What I don’t remember disappoints you.”

There’s no response to that.

Claude watches carefully for any telling expressions, any line cast to the water that he can grab onto and not let go of. He’s never seen so many emotions flit across one person’s face before, as if they can never settle, swarming inside of him with all the unpredictability of a raging fire. It’s an allure he never knew existed, and when those sharp features calm to a burning ember, he watches every move like it’s a makeshift gauge. 

“I... never knew my father,” he’s told.

 _Okay,_ Claude nods. He can work with this.

“Didn’t know you could feel so strongly about a guy you never met.” He refers back to specific passages in the notebook, deep-rooted hatred, a dozen misunderstandings. He wonders if it’s supposed to make sense. 

“He passed when I was barely a toddler.” Eyes travel slowly across the room before they make their way back to Claude’s own. “But I have a feeling that my life would have been harder if he were around.”

Something about the way he says that has Claude thinking about his own parents. About how they’ve always come and gone how they pleased, and how one of them just left for good and never came back. Being halfway around the world now felt like freedom and homesickness at the same time. He’s not sure if it’s the same, but it’s never been easy, whether they were there or not.

“Do you have what you’d call an easy life?” Claude asks, voice unnaturally soft.

“Not anymore.” 

Claude is met with a painful stare; like it must hurt to talk—to talk to _him_.

And for once, _with this one,_ he decides to throw caution to the wind.

“You really can’t stand to have me around, can you?”

“If you knew the pain I know, you wouldn’t be able to stand me, either.” And then, “or maybe you would.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Claude admits. 

“Then you need to leave me alone,” comes the quiet plea, silken form retreating from the edge of the sill, hands reaching for the divets of the dorm room window. “I can’t bear to see you anymore.”

Claude isn’t even allowed to answer; the window closes in his face and the curtains draw closed. 

He stares at the window silently, at lacey pink drapes that mock him like an intricate box holding something valuable inside. It’s impossible to open, impossible to reach for that treasure, when he doesn’t have the key. 

And now, he’s not so sure if he’ll ever have it. 

A hand smacks gently at his leg.

“Hey, uh, Claude—? Ol’ buddy, ol’ pal? Should I, uh?” 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and he and Sylvain begin the torturous task of stepping down from the bench and detaching from each other without any slip-ups that would cause either of them to be missing from their seats in class bright and early tomorrow morning. Claude goes through the motions without thinking about it, mind too laser focused on one thing and one thing only, and it just serves to kill his mood. Beside him, Sylvain stretches his arms, joking about getting his workout in, but Claude can’t bring himself to laugh.

“Hey, you okay?”

He puffs out a disbelieving breath, an overwhelming feeling hits him like a fast-moving train, and he tries not to tell himself it’s heartbreak.

Claude’s eyes find Sylvain’s. 

“I think I...” he croaks out, but it trails off in waning confidence, and seeing pity in Sylvain’s eyes makes him burn with unspeakable anger toward himself. “Never mind.”

“Claude—”

“I just really don’t wanna hear it right now, Sylvain—”

“You might not get another chance,” he says anyway. The way he looks at Claude reminds him of that time in the hall, Sylvain’s eyes flashing as he and Felix exchange terse words. It’s a different Sylvain—a passionate one—and Claude doesn’t know what to say when that passion is directed at _him._

So when he doesn’t say anything back, Sylvain scoffs like he can’t believe him. 

“You might not _get_ another life.”

Sylvain pulls his hand over his mouth, shoving his hands in his pockets and dragging off before Claude has the chance to realize that Sylvain knows he was _there_ —listening as he said just the same to Felix. 

And then, Claude’s alone, Sylvain’s voice ringing in his ears.

“Another life,” he says to himself.

How many times does that have to come up?

Like there’s too much truth to it now.

Claude sighs himself bitter.

“What am I supposed to do?” 

He’s always faced reality head on, but the way things are now, he doesn’t know if he likes what reality has shown him. His chest aches. And walking away from that window feels like a loss—like he’s missed his chance at something great, whatever that greatness may be. It leaves him uneasy, feeling older, but none the wiser. 

With nothing guiding him but these _dreams._

He welcomes them, though—they’re the only thing that makes sense anymore. 

Claude shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the moon.

These days, he swears can’t wait to get back to sleep. 

*******

Beneath the moonlight, Claude feels immobilized. 

At long last, the end of this war is in sight. Five years of picking his brain apart like it’s a leg of meat just to find answers to impossible questions has Claude anticipating the fruit of his labors. His taste of victory and the opportunities that come with it. The light at the end of the tunnel. 

A light he can escape into.

Maybe he should be thinking about the fact that he’ll finally, _finally_ be putting a stop to Edelgard’s reign of terror, to her cruel means to an end and the endless bloodtrail that follows in her wake. But all he can think about is his freedom, _his_ endgame. 

And Lorenz’s hand, cradled in the warmth of his palm.

For once, since this war began, Lorenz’s isn’t wearing his gloves out in the open, and Claude can stroke over his velvety knuckles that are somehow still soft despite his time wielding lances. They yield beneath his calloused thumb, Lorenz’s fingers curling around one of his own. Claude gazes at their tips, singed dark from magic use, small silver scars marring that once flawless skin. 

Just the sight makes Claude clench his teeth. 

Never again after their last battle will Lorenz have to harm these perfect hands—this, he’ll make sure of. 

His fingers gently coax the very one he’s holding into the light, suddenly between both of his, and Claude’s touch ghosts over blunt fingernails—feels their way across raised scars. They travel along a fleshy palm that yields when he traces its lines, resting on the pulse point of a slender wrist. 

Claude looks to Lorenz, watching him with lidded eyes, and brings that hand to his lips.

“Lovely,” he murmurs against those fingertips. 

“Are they?” Violet eyes gaze up at him through thick lashes. “Is that why you were scowling at them?”

“I only scowl because you must use them to fight.”

“Would you rather I be using them for something else?”

Claude’s face splits into a stupid grin before he can help himself, effectively breaking his sultry character; leave it to Lorenz to say something that turns his ears red. 

“Are you flirting with me, Gloucester?”

“In your dreams, von Riegan.” The smile on Lorenz’s face says otherwise and Claude admires the way he shines so brilliantly in his hands, like glittering gems or stolen treasure, something beautiful he wishes to keep. 

Which is why he intends to ask for Lorenz’s hand.

 _Only those who ask, shall receive,_ they always say.

It’s the perfect moment, this small reprieve. And he may not have a ring or an heirloom passed down from one generation to the next; such things will come later, after this war has ended, when they can go _home_. But he does have his heart, locked away behind a wall of secrets with a combination of meticulous puzzles whose solutions only Lorenz knows. 

Claude thinks that is enough. 

“I want my dreams to become reality,” he says truthfully. “And one of them is having you by my side.” 

Lorenz reaches up, his hand cool on Claude’s cheek. 

“Nothing would make me happier.” 

They share a soft, chaste kiss and, in that moment, Claude feels illuminated, confident in his desires.

“Then will you swear yourself to me—in name?”

Lorenz’s eyes widen just a fraction, as though he can still be surprised by Claude’s antics after all they’ve been through, before they fall. Lightly, he brushes the back of his soft fingers along Claude’s jaw, the smile he wears impossibly soft. And Claude can’t begin to explain the way his rib cage opens itself to receive Lorenz into his heart, that hand—as gentle as it is deadly—wandering to his chest, enclosing over his beating pulse. 

Lorenz doesn’t say a word.

 _Of course,_ Claude thinks as his face falls, _this is war._

He feels like a fool asking for such a thing as marriage when all is so fragile. His timing... has been better. And Lorenz deserves the romance of a proper proposal; not a promise in the middle of chaos when the skies burn black and the rivers run red and there’s no promise of tomorrow. 

But Claude, down on one knee, speaking vows he fully intends to keep. 

A lavender curtain obscures all as Lorenz dips down once more, this tender kiss somehow more chaste than the last, but it steals Claude’s breath all the same. He chases those sweet lips as they pull away, but he fails to reach them, Lorenz retreating to lean against the parapet.

He settles for entwining their fingers together once more.

“Do you see the moon, Claude?” Lorenz looks up at it with a yearning, as though he empathizes with the emotion in its glow. “Its fate is tragic.” 

Claude has seen the moon, has watched it in admiration of its serene glory; unlike the blinding brightness of the sun, he can appreciate its light, can bask in its celestial beauty and follow every dip and plane the sky allows him to see. He regards it as an enchanting mystery, though one he can grasp so long as he has the hopes to reach it.

Fingers play along his ticklish palm and Claude wraps his hand around them, deciding that there’s a sight much more appealing to his eyes than tonight’s moon—one that bears no tragic fate, no matter what the poems and storybooks say.

“It only shines when people are not awake to see it, and then it must die and let the sun’s brightness overshadow it when eyes open,” Lorenz continues. “It has always been this way.”

One day, Claude swears it, Lorenz will stop speaking of the moon as though it has an unfulfilled dream.

“And what of the sun when the moon dies?” Claude brings their joined hands to his chest when he finally speaks, as if hoping their presence will calm the something dreadful that stirs in his chest. “How can he shine when he’s lost his muse?”

Lorenz’s amused smile washes away his unease, tender tugs bringing Claude’s knuckles to soft, plush lips.

“Muse or not,” he hums, “the orchestra plays on.”

*******

It’s half past four in the morning when Claude rubs at his tired eyes. He’s been awake for at least an hour now, books piled high, surrounding him like a fortress—pencil after broken pencil littering the floor of his bedroom as he scribbles down notes. 

Last night’s dream was so clear. 

That voice, speaking to him in hushed tones, eyes flirting with him through thick lashes—hair that felt soft as butterfly kisses beneath his fingertips; he can’t forget.

Not now, not anymore. 

The stirring in his chest is as strong now as it was in his bed, an ache—a yearning—for something that’s been in front of him this whole time. It’s like a sign or something; it still doesn’t really make sense. But he’s tired of being surrounded by so many mysteries. If there are answers, he wants them. 

Hilda had tossed him a stack of books after classes in the late afternoon that day—titles like _The Dreamer’s Dictionary_ and _The Laws of the Spirit World_ donned the covers in what seemed like the same fancy font. And Claude hadn’t even fought it, just scooped them up and took them home; it wasn’t as if he even remembered much about what went on those twelve hours of daylight anyhow. He was too tired from staying out late after that window stunt with Sylvain the night before. 

So, here he is, reading about the meaning of dreams and reincarnation testimonials as he tries getting closer to the truth. 

It occurs to him how insane it sounds, that the truth is some long lost lover from hundreds of years ago—maybe thousands—and he’s just forgotten everything about him. He doesn’t feel as though he can blame L.H.G. for his feelings now. If it were him on the flipside, well, Claude’s sure he’d feel upset, too. 

He remembers _now,_ though, mostly; he hopes that still counts for something. 

Not that his so-called lover wants anything to do with him.

But, how can Claude convince him when he doesn’t even remember his _name?_ When it escapes him every time he opens his eyes? When he can’t even remember fine spoken details—when nothing remains but lids heavy with sleep and skin burning with the memory of a touch?

When he’s not sure of any of it, but he wants it to be real.

It seems crazy, far-fetched, but lately he can’t seem to help it. How many times will these moments they share be just a coincidence?

...And if none of them are?

Since that night he climbed his way up to that window like some modern day Romeo— _with the help of the best possible Mercutio_ —he’s been able to close his eyes and see things he can’t begin to explain. Some would call them daydreams, probably, but Claude can’t imagine that a daydream could feel so real. That an idea could run so wild, or leave him full of wonder and awe, sadness and regret. 

Like they’re a mess of missing puzzle pieces he can’t begin to put together.

He sighs. 

Index finger following diligently countless paragraphs on countless pages of countless tomes, he finds that he’s no closer to the answer. But he can’t stand to read anymore, doesn’t have the energy to, and wonders how long he has to figure it all out.

Claude shuts his book. 

And then he closes his eyes.

.

.

_Lorenz looks so peaceful when he sleeps._

_He curls around Claude’s pillows and doesn’t make a single peep, chest rising and falling and wrapped in a warm tunic too large for his body. The way his hair splays across the sheets on Claude’s bed is breathtaking, his fingers somehow elegant where they wind in the sheets; he’s beautiful in sleep as he is in the waking world._

_Claude gazes at him fondly from behind a letter from Duke Goneril before reluctantly turning to his desk, reading over it carefully as it reports in detail Holst’s most recent battle against a small faction of the Imperial army. Their casualties were few and their victory was assured, but there were more injuries than expected, and the time needed to regain their ranks is long. Claude takes this into account as he reworks his plans over and over again, penning down a few notes in the margins of his map._

_No matter how many he takes, however, or how much he reads—coherent thoughts don’t seem to come._

_Calloused fingertips graze over his exposed throat, sliding down his chest as arms drape around his shoulders. Claude blinks away the fog over his eyes, leaning his head back against a strong chest._

_“Won’t you come to bed?” Lorenz’s voice is deep, but soft, lips grazing his earlobe._

_“There’s much to do,” Claude replies, trying to concentrate on something other than Lorenz’s wandering hands, “and I’m running out of time.”_

_“Our position is not dire at the moment.” A finger follows along the lines of Duke Goneril’s letter and Claude can feel Lorenz mouthing the words against his ear. “Despite this setback, the Imperial army is weeks away from trying anything that will inevitably thin their numbers—they have lost two generals. And Myrddin will not slip from our hands as I have secured my house’s troops, therefore...”_

_Claude sighs as a perfect pout comes into view, the sight of a pale collarbone beneath Lorenz’s tunic practically begging him to press his mouth to it._

_“Come to bed, Claude,” Lorenz says almost scoldingly, though one of his hands brushes through Claude’s hair with utmost tenderness. “Won’t you... just this once?”_

.

.

It’s a quarter till six when Claude feels like he’s tortured himself in wanting something he can never have. 

That nagging he felt weeks and weeks ago—in the library, in the botanical garden; that nagging he felt days ago—in the halls, by the window; that nagging he feels daily has anchored into his lungs like thorny vines. Yet, like the roses they belong to, he can’t seem to let them go.

Pulling himself off the floor, Claude forces his eyes open and gets ready for morning classes.

* * *

The table by the fountain has become Claude’s go-to. 

Sylvain and Hilda know as much, too, and they’ve comfortably transitioned from their cool, air-conditioned corner table to the constantly changing outside. Hilda complained about it for the longest time—something about the humidity and her hair, the heat and her makeup, the wear of her perfume—but lately, she’s been getting there first when she would usually text their group chat and tell them she’s already found a table inside.

When Claude spots her sitting there now, he notices that her change in tune must be because Marianne is sitting across the way with Ferdinand, the way she stares at her all gooey-like giving her away. 

Claude interrupts when he drops his backpack into one of the chairs; Hilda sits up quickly, head-lighted like she’s been caught red-handed. 

“Jeez, you look awful,” she remarks, pink brows shooting up into equally pink bangs before she rummages through her purse. Claude doesn’t blame her for saying so. He knows he looks like crap. 

“I’ve never seen you settle on a single person before,” he says the moment he sits down across from her, watching as she pops a strip of strawberry gum into her mouth. It sounds a little insensitive, a little accusing, but he can’t help himself. He’s tired and Hilda’s served him a lot worse.

She looks miffed. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It’s just—since when is going steady ever something you’ve dreamed about?” Claude asks sincerely, trying for some kind of clarity. He knows Hilda does nothing without reason, doesn’t work hard for anything unless her whole heart’s in it; he wants to know, too, how he should love a _person_ —not an idea, or goal, or ambition. “I don’t get it.”

“I dunno,” Hilda sighs lightly, smacking her gum. “We’re like, soulmates or something.”

“Soulmates...” Something about the word sends a pleasant trill from the tips of his fingers to his fast-beating heart, making it burst like a solar flare. Hilda looks at him oddly.

“Claude, it’s not that serious.” 

“Really?” 

“Okay, so it is,” she admits quicker than he expected she would, and Hilda almost looks embarrassed, more red in the face than he’s ever seen her as she explains, “I don’t know, it just—happened! Sometimes, there’s no logic to these things.”

Claude doesn’t say anything for a long time, letting the minutes pass in silence, the only sounds coming from Hilda going in and out of her purse to freshen up her makeup. Under usual circumstances, she’d ask why he’s so quiet, or strike up some sort of conversation to fill the void. But he thinks that they both understand, on some level, why some moments are worthy of a pause. 

“How did you know?” Claude asks long after the conversation’s died.

“Know about what?”

“Marianne,” he presses, and she pauses in painting her lips, eyes gazing at him from above her compact mirror.

“It’s what you always say, right?” Hilda shrugs. “It’s not luck, it’s fate.”

Something within Claude splinters; he says nothing more.

And that night, his eyes remain open long after he falls asleep.

*******

Claude glances up at Barbarossa, reaching as she ducks down to pet her snout, her vibrating hum almost akin to a kitten’s purr. Her rumbling calms him, gives him unparallelled comfort, and he wonders how he’s made it all these years without her by his side. The fact that she’s here to ride into war with him feels like fate; she represents all that he is fighting for.

“This is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” he sighs. 

“That it is.” 

Both he and Barbarossa raise their heads to the sight of Lorenz with his steed, black armor glinting in the sunlight, regal smile on his face. Claude’s heart sings at the sight of him, and before he can close the distance between them, his wyvern is at Lorenz’s side, nosing at his chest. Adonia is wary, but seems placated with one gentle hand on her brow while the other cups Barbarossa’s rough chin, Lorenz cooing sweetly at the beast he once claimed was _‘out to get him.’_

Claude softens; the very exchange warms him.

“When we march into the capital,” he says, eyes reluctantly tearing away from the three of them and staring out over Enbarr, “into that palace, this war will finally end.”

“Will your dreams become reality on this day, Claude von Riegan?”

He stares back at Lorenz, at long lashes and beautiful eyes that remind him of that night on the bridge, a vision beneath the moonlight.

“Doesn’t that depend on you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester?”

“If that is the case, then this battle must end in three days time.” A gloved hand is thrust to the west, Barbarossa assuming a ready stance as a confident grin accompanies the determined gaze that looks his way. “Or else let it be forfeit.”

Lorenz winks and Claude laughs heartily at the unexpected gesture.

“You’re mad,” he says, and Lorenz’s expression becomes gentle suddenly. He steps forward, hands smoothing the lines of Claude’s uniform, his fingers lingering on its golden buttons and brushing along its tassels. His smiling doesn’t cease, but it softens as their gazes meet, and Lorenz reaches up to brush his cheek.

“I have had madness long before this war.”

Claude’s heart flutters.

And then his eyes do. 

Ghostly long lashes blur his view and he sighs into sleep again.

Three days is three too many.

Claude’s troops are run ragged and Barbarossa struggles to keep to the sky. She fumbles through the air until he’s forced to land, kicking off her saddle and onto the city grounds. He hears her bellowing roars as she tears through soldiers, a worthy partner to have at his side, though he struggles with himself knowing that she must be in pain. 

His hands ache as he draws arrow after arrow, gloves long gone, worn to tethers with use and burned to nothing by fire. Raphael’s battlecries keep him on his toes, and he pushes through each confrontation with a fierceness all his own, stealing quivers from the bodies he downs before running to the next. 

Sylvain is at his side in an instant, thrown off of his horse and now at his back, keeping enemies at a distance with each fatal swing of his lance. Claude keeps close to him, shooting down any wayward snipers, intent on making sure Sylvain lives through this fight. 

He won’t lose any more friends to Edelgard.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Felix being thrown off his feet by an Alliance soldier and Claude reflexively pivots, drawing back an arrow. It’s a shame, he thinks, that he has to kill someone with so much potential—but he’s a traitor. 

Abandoned his family, deserted his king.

The only thing that stops him from taking his shot is being grabbed and pulled back, Claude stumbling into Sylvain, whose crazed, wide eyes stare at Felix until he’s back on his feet and running into the fray. A thunderous lightning bolt from a levin sword kills one of Claude’s soldiers and he snatches himself away, an impossible rage burning in his chest.

“General Fraldarius,” Claude growls, “of the _Empire._ ”

Though it shouldn’t bear repeating. Sylvain knows better.

He chose this path; they all had their chance to pick sides.

But there’s no time to contemplate that—the lives they’ve taken, the would-be allies they’ve lost—there’s _no_ going back. It’s an arrow to Petra’s throat, a lance silencing Bernadetta’s scream, Linhardt begging Caspar to reconsider his allegiance before he reluctantly unleashes Excalibur. 

It’s sad, Claude thinks, but that’s what war boils down to.

It boils down to right now, to another arrow about to find its home in the heart of an old classmate.

Hubert emerges from the shadows like a wraith—ghostly, surrounded by smoke and embers.

“And here we are—the final battle.”

Claude doesn’t lower his weapon; he’s not here to talk.

“You could’ve walked away quietly, Claude,” he reasons, inclining his head as he clasps his hands behind him. Still, Claude doesn’t waver. “The Empire and Almyra would’ve surely come to an agreement.”

His lips twitch upward at that. 

_Gotta give the guy credit._

“I dunno, giving up sounds migh-ty boring,” Claude counters, drawing his bow tighter.

“So, you choose to forfeit your life instead,” Hubert hums, amused. “It matters not. I suppose this arrangement will be exciting for the both of us.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Hubert raises his hands, spreading his fingers wide as Fire consumes them. “Her Majesty, Lady Edelgard—”

A shock wave of dark flames shoot out from behind Claude, speeding past him and downing a sniper hiding in the vestibules above the arches, effectively revealing an oncoming ambush. Claude chances a turn of the head, but Lorenz sweeps past him, hands glowing at his sides as he regards Hubert with an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t you _ever_ get tired of saying her name?”

Hubert responds with a string of spells that spit from his hands, each alarmingly faster than the next, but to which Lorenz extinguishes with retaliating blasts of his own. It’s a battle of speed, and neither of them seem to have an advantage over the other, especially seeing as Lorenz is no longer riding his horse. 

Claude takes the opportunity to down the remaining snipers hiding in the surrounding buildings, shielding Lorenz’s flank from arrows meant for _him._

One of them is lucky, striking his weapon from his hands and out of reach, another grazing his arm and forcing him to move defensively. Claude is agile enough to stay out of reach until an arrow digs into his shoulder, another lodging itself in his thigh, the force of their impact throwing him off balance. 

He goes tumbling to the ground.

“Claude!”

An Agnea’s Arrow finishes the job where he can’t.

Claude stumbles to his feet, pulling the arrow from his shoulder with a wince, adrenaline high as he breaks off the tail in his leg and picks up Failnaught—waiting where he landed. It isn’t long until he spots Lorenz, his resolve steely as he stares ahead. Hubert stands, the glow of his magic never once dimming, even while he’s on his last legs. 

Lorenz raises his arms for a counter attack, but Claude notices with the flick of the enemy’s wrist that the trajectory of the strike has changed. 

Hubert aims for _him._

“For Her Majesty!”

Unleashed is a blast that rushes toward him with a speed besting one of Failnaught’s divine arrows and with the last second Claude has, he steals from his quiver and draws one back, unwavering pride in his smirking grin as he waits for the oncoming blow. 

He’s prepared for this.

But it never reaches him; the sharp sting of dark armor pushes Claude out of the way, and he catches a there-and-gone glimpse of Lorenz’s enraged glare before he’s casted back—thrown several feet across the field. Reflexively, Claude roots himself after a lucky somersault, drawing Failnaught once more and aiming true, silencing Hubert’s maniacal laughter once and for all.

And then, the first act is over.

The battlefield clears, his generals dragging themselves and soldiers far and wide across the city, most staring skyward toward the colossal palace Edelgard awaits them in—and some looking to him, or the wounded, or the fallen.

Claude drops his bow at the sound of Hilda shouting Lorenz’s name.

Fear clutches his body as he whips around, the sight of blood pooling around armor black as night calling him forward, shreds of the metal dusting it like stars in a crimson sky. It strangles him, steals his breath, and his body moves detached from his mind.

And then Claude is on his knees, pulling Lorenz into his arms as if holding him will take away the pain. He doesn’t see or hear a thing—not Raphael’s quiet sobs, not the whistle of winter that’s Marianne’s healing magic, not Hilda constantly chanting Claude’s name as though he can do anything _useful_. 

Not even Barbarossa’s anguished cry reaches him. 

He hears none of it. Just ragged breathing in his ears, blood rushing through his veins, his heart beating and aching and _aching_ and _beating—_

“Claude,” Lorenz sighs.

“Stay awake for me, _please,_ ” he begs desperately. He’s never touched so gently as he does now, brushing stained strands of long hair from Lorenz’s face. So pale is the skin beneath his fingertips, clammy and shuddering; the armor once polished and proud now melted, sunken into Lorenz’s chest and hardened within the cavity by cooling blood. 

_“I have had madness long before this war.”_

Not madness like this.

A strangled sob wracking Marianne’s shoulders wrenches his heart and he looks up to see her staring wide-eyed at her hands, their glow waning, and Claude’s never known hopelessness quite like what’s reflected in her eyes.

He grits his teeth, clutches Lorenz’s shoulders, forcing his face into his hair that draws a dry sob from his lips because it still smells like the petals of a rose. 

“Marianne, _hurry._ ” The magic pouring from her hands fizzles; she’s tired, sharp gasps and incoherent babbling spilling from her lips. Marianne’s shoulders shake, breaking her concentration, and Claude rages at the thought that he wouldn’t need to rely on a healer if he just learned a spell or two himself. “Marianne—there isn’t any time!”

“I-I’m—” she looks up at him for a split second, pouring enough energy into her magic that it begins to nick her fingers. When the open wound remains, she heaves a sob that evokes tears in more eyes than just her own.

Claude can’t take it.

“ _Marianne!_ ” 

“I— _can’t!_ ” Marianne cries, pulling her bruised hands from Lorenz’s chest, staring at them—horrified. “I... I c-can’t...”

Claude sucks in a breath that leaves him in a staccato of disbelieving gasps, blinking into existence a well of grief that threatens to fall from his eyes; he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say—wonders if there is some divine failsafe that can turn back the hands of time. 

Inevitabilities make his chest ache with a wound all its own.

Gloved fingers grasp Claude’s wrist and he draws his eyes to screaming violets, somehow captivating still in the bloodbath of the battlefield. They spill over with what he wishes was fear and regret—or heartbreak and _misery;_ they are none of these things. Just tears, and eyes crinkling a smile where Lorenz’s mouth fails to.

“What’s wrong with you?” Claude asks, his shaking hands cupping that beautiful, porcelain face—his thumbs clearing away uncontrolled tears flowing from dilating eyes. “Why did you do that?”

Lorenz’s chest rises slowly, ever so slowly, as if he needs the strength of his entire body just to smile.

And he does.

As though he’s accepted his fate, he smiles, blood dribbling red from the corners of his lips—eyes wet and wet and endlessly _wet_ —and the smell of ichor mingling with perfume. 

Lorenz’s hand falls from his wrist and Claude grabs it with all the frantic lunacy of hoarding gold; he entwines their fingers, the flesh beneath his cold.

He cannot bear this.

“The orchestra plays on, Claude von Riegan.” 

_He cannot bear this._

“Lorenz, _please_ —”

“We could never exist within the same sky.” 

Claude listens to his dream proclaim love one last time. 

“The moon must die for the sun to rise.”

*******

He cannot bear this. 

Claude wakes clawing at the suffocating pain in his chest, eyes wet and lashes heavy, as if they want to anchor themselves closed and replay every dream he’s ever had like an uncut journey to its cruel conclusion. His heart aches, yearns for something he’s never had, and all the same—he knows he grasps it in his hands. 

Was that the end of them?

He once believed these dreams to be just that—dreams—but now, they feel like something more. He feels like he’s just witnessed the end of an era, that one last bad memory that’s supposed to make all the others twice as good to look back on, no matter how bittersweet. That dark sweetness, no matter the remnants of touch they leave beneath his fingertips, will never be enough to erase the moment he watched the light leave those once vibrant eyes. 

It haunts him; the way breath left his lover’s body imprints on the hollow of Claude’s chest, eats him away and leaves behind a void of sorrow.

It’s the only memory he can suffer to forget. 

“It’s not luck, it’s fate.”

Memories. 

He doesn’t start at the thought of his dreams being memories—not anymore. Claude doesn’t have a moment of startling realization that maybe all of these thoughts of reincarnation aren’t just stories his father told him when he spoke about their faith; instead, he knows them to be true. It’s engraved in his bones as a truth of the world, carved into his body with each dream he has about a man whose name he does not know.

But, he does.

Claude _does_ know his name.

“Lorenz” rolls off of his tongue like something warm and floral—like mysteries that are still mysteries despite how much unraveling’s been done. It fills his chest with the sensation of flowers blooming beneath the surface of his skin. It’s unreal—mystical. All this time, he’s known the answer to every question he’s ever had about the man in his dreams, the thrum in his chest whenever he sees that same man when he opens his eyes. And it all starts with one name. 

Has Lorenz been having these dreams, too?

Or has he always known about the life he lived before this one?

Claude feels ashamed, to a degree; how long has _he_ denied this truth?

_He basks in the sun’s golden gaze,_

_to place it gently upon my wintry flesh,_

_bringing warmth to crisp sheets,_

_on this lonely flower bed._

He finds Lorenz in the botanical gardens. 

There’s something about him writing poetry amongst the flowers that Claude wishes he could burn into his mind for every rainy day. That makes him tell himself that if he were allowed to, he’d keep pictures of these moments—tangible reminders that he couldn’t have back then. 

He’ll take what he can gaze with his eyes, though. That pretty profile, that violet hair that he _knows_ is as soft as it looks, right down to those perfect, unblemished hands. Claude loves the scratch of pen on paper, familiar now, like he loves the sighs full of yearning that fall from Lorenz’s lips. 

Like he loves...

Claude takes a step forward, more confident today than he has been since this all began, and it feels good—feels like he’s himself again now that he’s found the half of him that’s better.

“' _He is a wilted rose,’_ ” Claude recites, lines perfectly memorized, “ _‘longing for one who dares grasp his thorns.’_ ”

Lorenz stills his hand, slowly looking up until he’s staring at Claude’s smile that only grows wider with the attention. It doesn’t last; his brows furrow and his lips curl indignantly, but that’s okay, Claude thinks.

That’s okay.

“What are you doing?” Lorenz asks, and Claude is so caught up in the fact that he can finally put a name to that pretty face that he can’t even give a proper answer.

“You say it better,” he says wistfully instead, hand clutching at his chest, fingers spreading along the expanse and trying to rub away the ache of a whispered memory from the past. “You’ve always said it better than I have.”

Lorenz doesn’t answer, only snaps his book shut, and Claude doesn’t dare let the moment slip through his fingers. 

“I remember—”

“You remember _what?_ ” Lorenz snaps. “What do you _suddenly_ remember?”

Claude inhales deeply; he shouldn’t feel offended, really. And he gets that he doesn’t have the best track record, but he’s _trying._

Some part of Lorenz must see that, too, because all of his anger falls apart at the seams. He fights with himself right before Claude’s eyes and, for just _one meaningful second,_ it seems like he _almost_ believes him.

When their eyes meet, however, he knows that as false. 

There is nothing but despair.

“Leave me alone, Claude von Riegan.”

Claude stops breathing.

The realization is one of Hilda’s swift punches to the gut, it’s the moment Sylvain reminds him that—out of every last one of them— _he’s_ the scientist. It’s an arrow to his shoulder, his leg, his heart; all this time he’s been trying to remember a time, a face, a _name_ —he’s never once told Lorenz his.

Claude falls to one knee and takes his wrists, looks into his eyes as if the old Claude—the Claude from whoever _knows_ when—the Claude that’s inexplicably a part of him, will connect with the man who is inexplicably a part of Lorenz. And he’s _not_ that man from back then, no matter what, he’ll never be.

But Claude hopes, in some way, he’s still the man Lorenz wants.

“I love you,” he says softly. 

“I won’t _hear_ anymore of this.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Claude promises. “I lost you, but I _swear_ you haven’t lost me.”

Lorenz snatches his hands, pushing Claude away as he stands, letting the journal fall where it may.

“Stay _away_ from me, you insufferable—” 

“Muse, or not.” Claude breathes and the clack of Lorenz’s shoes cease. 

Reaching down, he picks up the poetry book; it fits perfectly in his hands, pages flitting through his fingers holding letters of love he knows well. But it’s the words that aren’t written that matter—the ones whispered to him in his wildest dreams.

He says, louder this time: “If the moon is always gonna be out of my reach, then I don’t wanna be the sun.”

Nothing can disguise the way Lorenz freezes in place, how he hesitates to turn around—how his shoulders suddenly shake and the tips of his fingers become visible at his sides as he hugs himself. 

Claude rises to his feet, knowing this is his one and only chance. 

He steps forward and spreads his arms out wide as if, at any moment, the man of his dreams will fall into his embrace.

And he’s not sure if he gets any of it, really—if he’ll ever get it— _does he get it?_ He doesn’t know! But whether it’s all dreams or reality, night or day, reincarnation or soulmates—

Real... or not:

“The orchestra plays on, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester!”

And those beautifully tearful, violet eyes look his way. 

**Author's Note:**

> some background information about student majors:
> 
> — claude's major is up in the air, but his career path involves being a traveling adrenaline junkie who makes functional art. his class schedule is indeed a clusterfuck.  
> 
> 
> — lorenz's major is in creative and/or screenwriting. being hopelessly romantic, he wants to create stories that exemplify the love he himself feels so deeply. and if life also gives him the opportunity to be an influencer...  
> 
> 
> — hilda majors in psychology: "i just wanna listen to people's internal gossip, you know?" she doesn't care to use her knowledge in situations she isn't being paid for.  
> 
> 
> — sylvain studies genetics, with an extensive background in history and ancestry. this stems from his awareness of past lives.  
> 
> 
> — dimitri and marianne, respectively, study business and veterinary science.  
> 
> 
> — felix is cruising through his general reqs.  
> 
> 
> — ferdinand is the thespian.
> 
>   
>    
> \+ [art](https://twitter.com/kaeos_theory/status/1250536340065837058) by @kaeos_theory.  
> \+ [art](https://twitter.com/omersdoodles/status/1303815250731503617) by @omersdoodles.  
> [twitter.](https://twitter.com/birdsandivory)


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